


I've Waited for This

by jmcats



Series: Run For the Woods Now [4]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Kid Fic, M/M, Zayn angst, Ziam and Safi, harry/louis relationship, wedding au, ziam, ziam smut, ziam wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 18:17:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 60,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmcats/pseuds/jmcats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day, he'll thank Louis Tomlinson for this: Liam still loves the smell of cigarettes on Zayn’s skin, the sound of Justin Timberlake when their fingers touch, the way Safi finds his own spot on their bed, the way there’s always pieces of skin touching just to keep them connected.</p><p>The way all of this started with a stupid, completely mental idea from Louis Tomlinson.</p><p>(Or the one where Zayn and Liam get married and Zayn's finally ready)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've Waited for This

**Author's Note:**

> Final piece in the **Run for the Woods Now** collection  
>  ( [Run For the Woods Now](http://archiveofourown.org/works/800140) | [We Lie Awake At Night](http://archiveofourown.org/works/833882) | [Home in the Stars](http://archiveofourown.org/works/869771) )
> 
>  
> 
> I wasn't sure if I was ever going to write this and, honestly, this is just a big excuse to write a really long fluff piece. So here's your warning: **Tons** of fluff. Massive amounts. But I hope it gives each of you the little things you were looking for and I hope it ties together all of the storylines from the first fic. If anything, I just hope it puts a smile on your face. Also, I don't know much about British law when it comes to marriage and adoption, so bare with me, okay?
> 
>    
> Definitely listen to Cider Sky while reading this because it's all I listened to while writing it, especially "We Are in Love."
> 
>    
>  **WARNING:** Strong language and some smut (I apologize now for not sneaking in more sex scenes)

One day, he’ll thank Louis Tomlinson for being a wonderful human being.

Zayn is almost certain hell will have frozen over and the world will be about three seconds from its own irreversible demise, but he’ll be sure to let Louis know he’s just slightly better than Satan himself.  Just _slightly_ , though.

Not tonight, but one day.

Tonight, he’s breathing in warmth, that fickle scent from one of the candles Harry’s given them – _coastal firewood_ , Zayn thinks – bathing the palely lit living room with its fragrant smell.  The heady aroma of fading cologne, something dark and sweet like chocolate, fills his lungs and that lingering scent of jasmine and lavender body wash swept through the stillness of the room.  The moon glitters in strips of shimmering ivory light from the large window behind the settee that Louis adores and the muted sound of the telly seems to wash brilliantly against the low volume of even breathing and quiet humming.  The bluish glow from the telly shines like pocket squares over the coffee table, against the sharp color of the couch, rounding out the features of a soft face that is wrinkled with sleep and another one that is gentle features, day old scruff, and an amused expression pushed over almost pinkish lips.

An arm shifts around his shoulders, draws him in closer and Zayn can’t seem to help the smile folding over his lips.  Stars bust behind his eyelids, the world slip-sliding sideways while those soft, nearly chapped lips kiss right along his hairline.  He folds nimble fingers through short, thick blonde-brown hair.  He smiles down at the softness, his fingers moving like the wave of a sea while his thumb strokes over a cheek that’s freckled with bright pink blush.  Long eyelashes kiss high on cheekbones, a small nose wrinkled with the reverie that comes with quiet dreams.  The skin beneath his palm is porcelain gold, a linty mixture of tender hues that remind him a little of Perrie, more of himself day by day.  His thumb gentles over thick eyebrows, down over ruddy lips and his touches become breathy motions before he grins down at his son.

Safi stirs a little, curling into a tighter ball while snuggling to that silly stuffed Woody that he can’t seem to sleep without most days.  His lips wrinkle a little and Zayn imagines large, glittery lilac eyes behind those closed lids.  He sighs softly, trying to time his breathing with Safi’s for a moment before those lips on his hairline draw pretty patterns against his temple.  There’s whispered words, ones that are barely heard above the whirling hum of the television, the bombs bursting and engines roaring from _Transformers_ playing idly across the screen that he’s barely paid attention to for the past hour.

“You’re gonna wake him.”

Zayn snorts lowly, shaking his head.  His teeth find his bottom lip, gentle nips that muffle his words.  He strides his thumb over Safi’s wrinkled brow, letting that arm haul him in closer until his own head is resting against a collarbone.  He can almost time the beat of the heart so close to his ears now – One, two, louder on the three and the four – and his grin tightens, spreads like the wings of an angel.  More explosions across the telly, the screech of dull noises and he barely lifts his eyes to watch.

“’m not,” Zayn finally says, the words just a gust of air rather than meaningful.

He feels the tickle of a laugh against his temple, a nose buried in his flattened quiff.  Zayn turns his head a little, his cheek pressing to a bare chest that’s littered with downy hair in the middle.  He feels the stubble surrounding those lips scratching over his forehead now, just to the left.

“Yes you are.  You _always_ do.”

“Not on purpose,” Zayn says quickly, tipping his chin to look down on Safi again.

His face is a collection of bright burning stars.  His hair is starting to lose the flecks of blonde – a dying piece of Perrie that still remains – and he looks as soft, tender as when he was an infant buried in Zayn’s arms.  It burns against Zayn’s chest, the way his son is almost six now and Zayn can barely remember where the time went.

A hand fits over his, the sharp contrast in complexions never tiring to Zayn.  Fingers dance over his knuckles in a quick, barely-there motion.  They fit between Zayn’s on Safi’s head, the pressure too light for Zayn to completely enjoy but it doesn’t matter.  He’s too transfixed on the shadows casting shapes over their hands, the way the light pinwheels off the surface of two rings so close together.  The feeling – indescribable adoration – penetrates every piece of armor he feels like he lost years ago.  He admires his own ring, the one next to it and something swells a little too stiffly inside of him.

They’re so close.  The weeks feel like haunting seconds.  The nerves haven’t worn away yet but he tries not to think about them.  He focuses on what the two rings mean – _a promise_.  A promise he thought he’d never make, hollowed out in that flat with the world weighing down on him and the need to run, run far away.

Run away into the nothingness he was certain his life was headed towards.

Another smile brushes gently against his temple, Safi shifting again until Woody is clutched close to his chest.  Soft kisses like the petals of a newborn flower move across Zayn’s skin and the chest below his head lifts and falls with a deep breath.  The metal of their rings clink together and Zayn tips his head back until it rests on a broad shoulder and he can catch a small glimpse of heavy brown eyes, quirked lips that move into a smile just for him – _Liam_.

The wake of a breath aches in his chest, his grin tipping higher as the corners of Liam’s mouth smooth out.  The flutter-flare of the telly – another battle between Decipticons and Autobots escalating – hums soft blue hues over Liam’s round cheeks, the catch of a star-driven moon leaving Liam’s brown eyes almost amaretto-tinted.  His free hand lifts and reaches back, fingers sliding through that loose, thick miniature quiff on Liam’s head.  The strands move like a gust of wind over ivy green grass, devoid of the product Zayn slathers his own hair with to make it stand tall and proud.  The tips of his fingers dance over Liam’s scalp, the softest of pressure, while Liam looks on him fondly.

The room feels so much bigger when they’re like this – Liam’s arm curled around Zayn, Zayn’s head on his chest or shoulder, Safi half-on, half-off of Liam’s lap, sleeping peacefully.  It all tingles and burns, the constant reminders that he’s here, in this house, with his son and Liam.  He’s in love.

Zayn is completely in love with this house, this feeling, Safi, and especially Liam.

He tucks his chin a little to look at Safi.  Moon beams glaze his face in a ghostly silver, a wealth of rich gold tinting his complexion.  Zayn often thinks about sketching Safi like this – sleeping while balled in so closely to Liam.  He imagines drawing out the lines of his cheeks, the way his lashes feather over the tops.  He wonders if he could smudge enough softness into his face, the way his brow wrinkles just a little, unlike Liam’s when he’s asleep.  That little curl to Safi’s lips like he still craves the pacifiers he’s given up years ago.  Pencil-tip grays for his eyebrows, ink blotched stains for the deep richness in his hair.  A spinning of colors dashed over his lips, a warm color for the tip of his nose.  He bites down on his lower lip when he’s deep in dreams – something Zayn’s certain Safi mimics from both him and Liam – and those lashes flutter just a little like the wings of a hummingbird.

A wash of warmth drifts slowly over his shoulder, fingers pressing gently until Zayn can feel the prickling tickle of Liam’s dull nails through the thin fabric of his shirt – well, Liam’s _Iron Man_ t-shirt but neither one of them complain when Zayn nicks all of Liam’s clothes.  His smile pushes roughly at the corners of his mouth, tilting his head back again to look at Liam.  The adoration lifting Liam’s brow, creasing his lips, crinkling the corners of his eyes collides with Zayn’s thoughts.  It punches his gut and he’s dazed for a moment watching the way Liam won’t divert his eyes, lower that smile.

“D’ya think he’ll have nightmares tonight?” Zayn wonders, rounding his head until it rests on Liam’s shoulder.

“From the film?  No,” Liam says quickly, his fingers floating up until they’re itching at the small hairs on the back of Zayn’s neck. “From spending half of the day being yanked around most of the city with your best mate, his Uncle Lou?  Definitely.”

Zayn snorts, teeth sinking into his bottom lip.  He crooks a leg over Liam’s, an arm easing between the cushion of the couch and Liam’s back, fingertips curling around Liam’s waist.  They’re feet brush lightly against each other on the coffee table, a bowl of now chilled popcorn long forgotten.

Louis seemed determined to bustle Safi around the city in search of a new wardrobe for his first few weeks at school – a futile shopping trip for Louis disguised as one for Safi – and Zayn was never good at reasoning with Louis once he got an idea in his head.  Safi loves it, those moments with Louis, and Zayn didn’t seem to mind the time alone at home to write a little, start on a few unfinished paintings he’d avoided for too long.  He’s certain, by the sound of Safi’s yawns earlier, that the trek across the city was well worth it for his son – probably more so for Louis if the heaps of bags Louis totted in were any indication.  But there were now a scattering of clothing hung up in Safi’s closet and, regrettably, Zayn didn’t have the strength to really pay attention to any of them when Louis made Safi model them all off for Zayn.  Not that he didn’t smile and wink at Safi every time he bopped into the room with a new button down shirt, a nice pair of chinos, and a few pair of Vans – Safi insisted on a few sets of trainers also because, well, what five year old wants to dress like Louis fucking Tomlinson? – but the thought alone was still harrowing for Zayn: Safi attending school.

“He loves his Uncle Lou,” Zayn finally sighs out, once more avoiding any thought that had to do with his son and growing up.

He never thought he’d be one of _those_ fathers.  Then again, at twenty-four, he never thought he’d be a father either.

Liam hums out a small laugh, nodding.  “Uncle Haz too.  And Ni.”

Zayn grins, his tongue pushing against the back of his teeth.  Safi still struggles from time to time pronouncing Niall’s name, Eleanor’s too but he seems more content with calling Harry “Uncle Haz” rather than anything else.  It’s silly, something Louis scoffs at almost every time, but maybe Zayn encourages it.  Maybe Zayn holds onto that thundering youth that crackles with every smile across Safi’s lips, the way he looks incredibly buoyant and boyish with those two missing teeth, large lilac eyes, cheeks pushed high and freckled with pink.

“Just wonder if _Transformers_ is a bit, I don’t know, _much_ for him,” Zayn mutters, the hand that was in Liam’s hair now pushing at the silkiness of Safi’s.  It’s getting long, not nearly buzzed and clipped like Liam had it at the beginning of that now tattered summer past.  He likes the way it curls at the tips like his own does when it’s wet, almost unruly like Liam’s when he really grows it out – Liam’s mum has shown Zayn pictures, things he’ll never forget from his many visits to Liam’s parents.

“He loves this film.”

“He _tolerates_ it.”

“But he told me he wants to be Optimus Prime for Halloween this year,” Liam insists, his voice still low, almost sleep-driven.

“ _Bumblebee_ ,” Zayn says quickly, biting down softly on his bottom lip when Liam arches an eyebrow.

“Whatever,” Liam sighs, a quiet snort following as he waves Zayn off.  There’s a content smile leaning on his lips, fingers stringing through Zayn’s hair.  “I said he could.”

“So that Batman costume you’ve conveniently spent quite a few quid on that’s still in a shopping bag in the back of the closet is for whom?” Zayn wonders, his own lips quirking into an amused grin.

Liam scoffs, a gentle tug on Zayn’s hair before he presses a quiet kiss to Zayn’s forehead.

“He might change his mind.”

“You’ve dressed him up as Batman for the past _two_ Halloweens.”

“And one year for his birthday,” Liam adds, tipping his head back with a tickling smirk rushing his lips.  “Who’s counting?”

“Me, obviously.”

“He loves Batman,” Liam insists, his voice choked when Safi stretches in his lap, small feet kicking against Zayn’s thighs before he’s mumbling quietly and sighing out an exhale.  He doesn’t stir much after that, arms strewn around that silly stuffed Woody – Zayn still wishes Liam would’ve gotten him a Buzz Lightyear one instead but that wasn’t a fight he was going to win – as he tumbles further into his sleep.

“You’re insufferable, babe,” Zayn says, holding on to a shifting smile.

Liam pokes his forefinger at Zayn’s cheek, a crooked grin running over his lips.  “Problem?”

Zayn bites against that giggle vibrating in his throat.  “Never.”

Liam lifts his eyebrows and Zayn leans up, a quick peck against Liam’s lips that seems to last a breath or two.  He loves the taste of honey, that minty bubblegum Liam likes to chew at work, a hint of jam from the sandwich he shared with Safi earlier that lingers on Liam’s lips.  Every little bit reminds him of this home the three of them have built over the years.

“We could’ve watched _the Lion King_ for the _eighth_ time,” Liam mumbles out, his nose crinkling with a wider grin.

Zayn rolls his eyes promptly.  “It’s your fault he’s obsessed with it.  You and your addiction to Disney films.”

“’s not my fault,” Liam says quietly, pressing his forehead to Zayn’s temple.  He’s chewing on his bottom lip, brow knit together in some wafting sign of concentration.  “It’s Uncle Haz’s fault.  I fancy _Toy Story_ , y’know that.”

Zayn can’t fight against the smirk prodding at his lips.  It sort of was Harry’s fault for Safi’s constant need to watch _the Lion King_ at least once a day.  Maybe it was Harry who chased Safi around the house, an echoing of laughter down the hall toward Safi’s room before it burned loud and bright in the living area where they settled on the floor – Harry was more often than not a bigger child than Safi ever could be – with glasses of pomegranate juice, bowls of vanilla bean ice cream while Harry popped the DVD in.  Maybe it was Harry singing just a little louder than Safi – _Hakuna matata means no worries for the rest of your days. It’s a problem-free philosophy_ – before Safi was climbing into Harry’s lap, giggling while Harry’s cherry lips curled into a grin, chin resting on the top of Safi’s head.  In the glow of a summer sun, Safi and Harry roaring at each other in the back yard with an orangey fire tracing the colors in Harry’s hair, maybe he looks something like Simba beneath the rise of spinning lights.

He shifts a little when Liam noses his cheek, lips dragging against rough stubble, warm spurts of breath dancing over his face.  The gray of the moonlight, the clouds spreading wide outside, dims some of Liam’s brilliance but Zayn could trace every little piece of Liam he adores with his eyes closed.  He feels the light pressure from Liam’s thumb along his ring, spinning it around his finger until the cool metal leaves little indents into his skin.

“Are you nervous?” Liam asks, his voice deep and low.

Zayn chews on his bottom lip for a moment.  He tangles his fingers with Liam’s before whispering, “Not really.  A little.”

“Me too.”

Zayn blinks.  It’s not that Liam doesn’t get nervous, shy about things but it’s such a rare thing.  It’s nothing like Zayn who analyzes everything, tries to piece together how things work, solving every little mystery in life.  But Liam’s the stable one; the strong, unbending piece of support that Zayn never sought out in life but can’t seem to live without now.  Liam’s just… well, he’s _Liam_.  A bit indescribable.  He likes like dancing on the ceiling, something Zayn imagines most modern day people have never done.  Or _ever_ done, really.

“I’m excited,” Zayn adds, teeth still biting unkindly at his lip.  It’ll be raw soon enough.  “I can’t wait, really.  I’m just – “

“Are you ready?”

Zayn swallows, fingers lifted from Safi’s head to rub at the scruff on his chin.  It drags, bites, comforts very little but he does it anyway.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, eyes sliding shut.  The colors spin rapidly there, circle the drain until he feels full of pride.  “I’m ready.”

“I hope so,” Liam chuckles and that arm around Zayn tightens.  “’m not letting you get away.”

Liam’s kind of cheesy, ever the romantic in ways that Louis finds sickening but Zayn’s fallen in love with it a long time ago.  It’s a light, effervescent thing that Liam does almost absentmindedly.  He’s goofy and a complete idiot but his words are never patronizing or overdone.  They’re blissed out comfort, cooling every little piece of anxiety Zayn never admitted to.  Stupid little boy with his round cheeks, soft eyes, little crinkles and wrinkles when he smiles, and the kind of chap Zayn would never fall for.  A complete fool for comic books, silly films, a nice eclectic taste in music that Zayn could never really get into with soft hands, warm smiles, and the kind of attention to Safi that Zayn often envies but not in a spiteful way.

Liam’s hand cups his chin, lifts it, lips pressed to Zayn’s before he can utter a word.  It’s an openmouthed kiss, just the smallest swipe of a tongue over Zayn’s teeth before Liam’s retreating a little.  He’s not smiling into the kiss like he usually does – Zayn thinks Liam finds happiness in the small touches more than he does anything else – but his lips are smooth like the flow of silk against your skin.  His lashes beat against Zayn’s cheek, their faces so close.  His thumb runs just beneath Zayn’s bottom lip and Zayn sighs contently into the kiss.

He reminds himself he wanted to run away from this.  From life.  From every little battle he never wanted to face.

Oh, he was a fucking idiot.

Liam grins when he pulls back, the flash of something on the telly coating Liam’s sun-kissed skin in a hollowed out blue.  It’s like the crest of a wave during a wicked surf, Zayn instinctively craning his neck to press a small kiss to Liam’s nose.

“Our mates think we’re fucking crazy,” Liam tells him.

Zayn nods, his brow lifting high.  “They’re the fucking idiots.”

“But they’re happy for us.”

“Better be,” Zayn muses, the corners of his lips raising.  “I’d hate to have to kick their arses.”

Liam’s lips quirk, an eyebrow arching.  “You?”

Zayn snorts, teeth finding his lip again.  “Or you.  You’re supposed to protect me.”

“You do fine on your own, babe,” Liam insists, leaning in until his lips gentle against Zayn’s cheek.  The words stick to Zayn’s skin when Liam says, “You do just fine.”

“Me mum keeps worrying me about all of the details,” Zayn says offhandedly, tucking his chin again.  Safi’s rolled to his back, small chest rising and falling at the same pace as Liam’s.

“Mine too,” Liam admits, nuzzling his nose to Zayn’s ear.  Zayn feels the hot rush of blush on his cheeks when Liam’s fingers run under his – no, _Liam’s_ – shirt to trace over his collarbone, etching out every little tattoo there.  “Me dad too.”

Zayn holds in a sigh, eyes fluttering shut again.  There’s a rise in his frustration, a pull on his lips until they slide into a frown.  He hates how everything floods him so quickly – the disappointment, the fear, the complete need to run again.

He hates it all.  How could one person do that to him every single time?

“Is he coming?” Liam wonders, his voice soft and all of the other questions he wants to ask are hidden beneath a layer of shyness.

Zayn’s teeth nip hard on his lip, almost breaking the flesh.  “Mummy says he is.  Not sure.”

Liam nods, another kiss pressed to his cheek.  It does little to comfort him but he smiles anyway.

“He’s just so traditional,” Zayn sighs, his nose wrinkling.  “I love him.  I love what he’s made me.  But he won’t completely support this.  Support _us_.”

“I think he likes me,” Liam murmurs, words coated in a smile that is so Liam.

Zayn grins tightly, sighing.  “He _adores_ you.  He loves Safi.”

“He’ll come around.”

Zayn wants to tell Liam he won’t.  He wants to tell Liam that man he’s known all of his life is stubborn, set in his ways, completely content with the way life was before Zayn got Perrie pregnant, decided he fancied boys more than girls, fell in love with the boy from across the hall with no intentions.  He doesn’t.  And maybe he wants to believe Liam more than he wants to believe reality.

“He’ll be there,” Zayn says with a settled tone, eyes flickering open.  He can see the spots of Liam’s smile, the warmth in his eyes just to the side of his own face.

He imagines Yasser there, sitting next to Tricia, dabbing at his eyes with Tricia’s handkerchief while Safi’s nestled into Tricia’s lap.  He thinks about his entire family, loud and bright and always so much fun, gathered at his wedding.  He imagines a crowd of cousins, his sisters dancing with flower crowns on their heads and a frilly white dresses swaying in the wind.  He wants to watch aunt after aunt hugging tightly onto Liam, congratulating them, Doniya leading an ushering of little cousins to play with Safi while Waliyha clings to Liam the way she always does whenever she visits.  He bites on his lip, warm and pleasant emotions bubbling as he considers the way his baba would look at him and Liam – the same way he looks at Tricia after all of these years – before giving Zayn that small nod of approval like he did when he first saw Zayn holding Safi in his arms.

It was all he thinks he needed.  Just that small moment where he was the simple hero and Yasser was the proud spectator.

Zayn lets his eyes run over Safi for a moment.  Liam’s untangled their fingers, the pads of his fingers now drawing sharp shapes over Safi’s cheek.  Zayn brushes his own fingers over Liam’s knuckles, dried paint still clinging to his skin from the collage on Safi’s wall that he and Safi have been working on for weeks.  It’s all clouds, swirls of blues and greens, sunsets and stars and every little thing that reminds Zayn of Safi.  It’s distracting enough most days, the way Safi seems to escape the project slathered in paint while Zayn has a few swipes of color against his cheeks from where his fingers rubbed at them, drops in his quiff from Safi’s wild brush strokes, faded hues of yellow on his jeans that make them look a little more posh and artistic.

“He’s starting to look loads like you,” Zayn whispers, still smiling fondly down on his son.

Blush settles against Liam’s cheeks, that dopey grin that always tangles itself on his lips when Zayn says something nice looking bright and unrelenting.

“Does not.”

“He _does_ ,” Zayn says firmly and there’s nothing pathetic about the way a smile pushes at Zayn’s lips.

He means it.  He can see little pieces of Liam in Safi all of the time.  And maybe Safi’s not Liam’s son, but he sort of is.  Liam changed his diaper, soothed him when he was teething, prepared him a bottle during the middle of the night, even taught Safi his ABC’s.  He practiced words with Safi, drug him into the backyard for hours to play footie, teach him all of the little tricks that would surely make Safi a formidable player later on in life if he wanted to join one of the school’s teams.  He was as much Safi’s father as Zayn was and it sticks to Zayn’s heart like the thick snowflakes that fall just after the beginning of December.

It’s the thickness of his eyebrows, the fullness of Safi’s lips, the way his smile curves at all the right corners.  The golden-brown of his hair in the summer – Perrie’s hair was always platinum, eyes too bright and blue throughout the year – and the way Safi’s accent is a little more like Liam’s rather than that sharp, northern tone like Zayn and Perrie’s.  He’s wiry like Zayn and his tongue flicks at his teeth when he’s really smiling but his shoulders sit wide and round like Liam’s and he rubs at the back of his neck shyly the way Liam does when he’s a little uncomfortable.

“Think so?” Liam wonders, his thumb edging over Safi’s bottom lip.

Zayn nods slowly, fumbling with another grin.

“I love the little chap,” Liam says, his voice going impossibly quiet and soft.

“I know.”

“Honestly,” Liam adds, clearing his throat, “I really do, babe.”

Zayn merely nods.  He knows.  He always has.

They bathe in silence for a few breaths.  Zayn loves the way they do this – curl around each other with no words, no pretense.  They adored the silence equally, something Zayn’s never had with Louis.  Louis was all idle chatter, bursts of unneeded excitement, a roll of the eyes anytime Zayn would sit around muted for too long.  Niall’s the same, not quite as annoying as Louis but he has his moments.  They were stupid jokes, fits of rambling, heavy breaths that always echo loud and rattling in Zayn’s ears until he just wants them to go away.  He imagines Harry’s the same with Liam, though Harry has always been a bit more laidback and content with Liam’s drifting into moments of quiet and peace.

Zayn relaxes when Liam’s fingers bruise against his temple, kisses laid over the side of his neck as Liam brushes small bits of fringe from Safi’s forehead.  The cool of Liam’s ring runs over the back of Zayn’s hand, a feeling he’s never adjusted to.

He’s going to marry Liam.  Fuck, he’s getting married.

He always thought it’d be Perrie.  Not because he loved her – he does, but not that like that.  Not anymore – but out of respect for his parents.  Out of convenience.  Out of a need for Safi to have his mum and baba together because, well, that’s the way it’s supposed to be, right?  Louis always huffed at the idea, Niall shrugging at it because he would always tread lightly over topics like that.  He thought maybe one day he might meet a nice girl, all rock ‘n roll tattoos and cigarettes like him, who would love him for himself.  Safi too.  Maybe he’d meet some chap, fuck around for a few years, marry off his heart but not the rest of himself because no one would ever approve of that.  Maybe Louis, but no one else.

He never imagined it being the boy from across the hall who always smelled warm, bits of citrus and sharp cologne.  The boy with the wide smile and the best mate with the curls, stupid laugh, who fell in love with Zayn’s best mate.

Zayn thinks, somewhere, he probably wasn’t good enough to marry anyway.  He’s some fucked lad who still remembers being a teenager, scared shitless with a kid and no real path in life.

“You know I’m sorta in love with you, yeah babe?” Zayn asks, a scattering of stars sparking over his lips.  The quiet shyness that’s clung to him since a child seems to drift, waver whenever Liam’s close.

“I couldn’t tell,” Liam teases, his voice deep and cheeky.

Zayn grins, gnawing at his bottom lip while blush dares to kiss his cheeks rosy.  He still blames Louis completely for this feeling – Zayn doesn’t fall for boys like this – and he finds a need to remind Louis of that any chance the two of them are alone.

“Asshole,” Zayn snickers out, the word muffled when Liam sweeps in for a kiss.

It’s gentle, their lips rocking together, Liam’s thumb brushing lightly over Zayn’s chin.  There’s quiet sighs, a moan choked at the back of Zayn’s throat and he’s satisfied.  He’s falling, a collision of stars in the sky, until Liam catches him with his lips.  He presses hard enough that Zayn knows Liam can tell.

Liam can tell Zayn is in love with him.

The low rumble of thunder outside, the falling leaves of an approaching autumn crackling in the wind as they dance outside, the sky lighting up with a hint of lightning too far off in the distance.  The drops of rain pelt lightly on the roof, pluck like guitar strings when they bounce off the windows.  The film runs on repeat, the start of something familiar and pleasant in the background as Liam fits his lips perfectly over Zayn’s.  He can taste a hint of caramel from Liam’s tea, orange-spiced, and just the way Liam’s mum makes it – he remembers Liam telling him that years ago, in that flat across from Zayn’s, the rain pouring down.  Their noses brush when the angle changes and, fuck, it’s so good.

He knows, in a few weeks, he’ll have another reminder that he can have this kiss, this taste, this warmth every day of his life.

**

He bites impatiently at his bottom lip, sweat slicking his brow.  He feels tight and relaxed all at once, a moan choked at the back of his throat.  A gasp passes his lips, a breathy little laugh when Liam’s thumbs press incessantly into his hips.  He knows there’s small fingertip bruises left on his skin, purple tattoos that’ll fade but it’s a little reminder.  His back arches, red marks no doubt left behind from the wall it’s pressed against.  His toes curl, head tilted back and Liam’s mouth drags over the base of his throat.  A whine is caught on Liam’s tongue, Zayn’s eyes fluttering shut when Liam lowers him back down onto his prick.  It’s fast – something they haven’t done in far too long – and he loves the way they both shudder every time Liam rucks his hips up to slam into Zayn.

Zayn moans gently, Liam humming against his neck, teeth sinking in.  His fingers dig into Liam’s shoulders, trying to ride down on Liam’s cock but it’s not working.  Everything about this angle makes him relinquish control – he loves and hates that at the same time – and he can only hasten another groan from his mouth when Liam fucks up into him a little rougher.

He feels a curl of sweat slide down the center of his back, Liam’s knees buckling a little to adjust to Zayn’s weight in his arms.  Liam’s fingers are splayed across his arse, spreading his cheeks, giving Liam more room to thrust into and Zayn’s breathless, lips fallen open, everything buzzing – _Each shade of blue is kept in our eyes._

The thunder is a low, beckoning sound outside.  The rain thrums a little quicker, harder against the roof, over the side of the house.  It echoes with Zayn’s muffled groans, his face buried in Liam’s neck.  His ankles cross at the small of Liam’s back, thighs burning and his fingers going numb.  Liam’s breathing into the crook of his neck, husky sounds that are labored and deep.  It’s a rich noise, the way Liam repeats his name over and over as he works up into Zayn a little slower.  The muscles of his arm flex, the pale light of the night highlighting their definition, their shape.  The veins protrude, fingers digging into Zayn’s skin until, fuck, he _needs_ this more than anything.

Zayn’s fingers have left faint smudges of paint, blues and reds, across Liam’s jaw, over his cheeks.  He can taste the sting of another cup of tea, sugar cookies Liam’s snacked on while Zayn laid Safi down in his bed an hour before this begun.  _This_ – a heatwave of sex, blistered and crackling like fireworks – is something he didn’t know he needed.

Fuck, he needs it.  He needs it incredibly bad.

Liam noses his jaw, a hand smacking against Zayn’s bum, leaving behind a red print that’ll go white, fade away.  Heaving breaths against the lower portion of Zayn’s chin, Liam’s bare cock tipping up high into Zayn.  He can feel it – the pressure, the way the head pushes against Zayn’s prostate – and he shivers out a gasp.  He fucking _shakes_ , pleads with Liam to move faster until he’s nearly slammed into the wall, his legs almost giving way with the pace Liam screws into him.

The raging sound of music in his head – _Keep blowing and lightning. We own the sky_ – clatters with the thunder outside.  His fingers sweep over the back of Liam’s neck, prickle against the short hair on his head.  Liam sucks gently at his neck, bruise after loving bruise, knees dipping to really push into Zayn.  The sweat makes the slide down the wall pleasant, a little less burning not that he minds the way that feels.  He likes the way Liam kisses over his body in the morning, running from his shoulder to his back, down to the dip just before the curve of his arse.  Little licks over his arms, his thighs, the places Liam’s dull nails have left imprints, where the burn of a rug or a hardwood floor have left Zayn weak and battered.

He tightens his thighs around Liam’s hips, panting.  He kisses along Liam’s shoulders, tries to rub his aching cock between them.  Liam pushes him further into the wall, apologizes just as quick with pliant kisses and a soft voice.  Zayn grins, tilting his chin a little lower.  He looks down on Liam, their eyes meeting, everything exploding with fevered breaths and desperate kisses.

His cock slicks against Liam’s stomach, sticking to his skin.  The slit expands a little, drop after drop of precome being squeezed out every time Liam drags his prick along Zayn’s insides.  He feels loose, the hot burn of Liam inside of him overwhelming.

Sweat shines over Liam’s face, his cheeks, his brow.  His eyes blown wide, lips curled into something like a sneer.  He drums kisses over Zayn’s cheeks, edging across his lips but never staying.  _Fucking wanker_ , Zayn thinks, leaning down to capture bits and pieces of Liam’s mouth.

“Can I make you come like this?” Liam asks against his lips, the thunder thumping, getting louder.

Lightning streaks through their bedroom window, everything silver and sparkly.  Zayn catches the way it highlights the darkness in Liam’s eyes, the flicker of something lustful right there.

“You can try.”

“You don’t think I can?” Liam wonders, his voice hoarse.  He pulls on Zayn’s hips, forces Zayn to ride off on that throbbing cock buried in him.  “Without touching yourself, babe?”

Zayn shudders, teeth sinking into his bottom lip.  He wants to fight it.  He wants to punch that grin off of Liam’s lips but, fuck, he needs to come.  He needs his cock to stop leaking so furiously against the thick hair around Liam’s navel.  And Liam’s right there, pushing on that bundle of nerves, making everything spin and unravel so fiercely.

“Yes,” Zayn stutters out, eyes shutting.

“Look at me.”

Zayn peeks one eye open, then the other.  Right there, Liam’s thumb pushing into the skin of his waist.  A moan sparks from his lips, the fire running like a river through his blood stream.

“Harder,” Zayn begs.  Fuck, he _mewls_ and tries to push further onto Liam’s cock.

“Come then.”

“Please.”

“Zayn,” Liam gasps, Zayn tightening himself around Liam.  Zayn’s back arches when Liam slams into him, the artwork on the wall shaking with another clap of thunder.

“Want it all over me,” Liam adds, licking at the shell of Zayn’s ear.  “Make you lick it off when I’m done.”

Rough kisses, Zayn’s lips swollen, hasty breaths passing their lips as Liam tries to keep a tight grip on Zayn’s thighs.  Liam’s tongue curls in his mouth, whispering – _Secrets from the winds. Burnt stars crying_ – and Zayn nearly blacks out.

“Liam,” Zayn gasps, fingers tugging impatiently at Liam’s hair.  “You’re gonna make me – “

“Me too,” Liam says quickly, burying himself deeper in Zayn.  His fingers play around the swollen rim, tickling at the skin that’s stretched wide from Liam’s thick cock.  Faster, so much faster.  The lightning lights everything up again, Liam’s mouth open against Zayn’s throat.

Zayn keens, digging his fingers into Liam’s shoulders.  He could touch himself, finish this so quickly but he doesn’t.  No, he _can’t_.  It feels too good, too untouchable.  Everything inside of him tightens, the wave rising higher, roaring.  His toes curl, fingers sliding off of Liam’s shoulders, his cock aching against Liam’s stomach.

Liam fumbles a moan, arms tightening around Zayn.  He pulls Zayn in, hauling him off of the wall, fucking into him still.  His forehead rests against Zayn’s collarbone, Zayn’s chin on the top of Liam’s head.  The pressure shatters – _So many moons here. Lost wings floating_ – and Zayn feels Liam against his prostate, pulsing.

“Liam,” Zayn hisses, shivering.  His bones crack, his skin peels apart, the world hisses like the slow moving storm outside.

Liam goes still for a moment, biting at Zayn’s chest.  Zayn can almost feel it, Liam flooding him, his own body quaking when his prick pushes out spurts of come.  It slicks against Liam’s chest, matting against the thick hair, sliding down over Liam’s clenched stomach muscles.  Fingers burn against his skin, Liam gripping him tight, heaving out pants as he fucks Zayn through it, shakes with his own release.  Lips flushed together, Liam looking dazed and glowing as Zayn breathes over his lips.

“Love you,” Liam whispers against Zayn’s mouth, punctuating the words with a few drawn out kisses.

Zayn giggles, nodding.  He can’t say it back.  He can barely swallow and he feels lopsided and wrecked.  He doesn’t know how, but the sex is always like that.  It’s a fucking inferno and Zayn still remembers the first night in Zayn’s flat.  The stains on the sheets, the way Liam felt inside of him, the tugs on his hips, the slow roll of sleep afterwards – _It’s coming from the sky. It’s coming from the wind._

“You just,” Zayn heaves out, sliding a sweat-slick palm over Liam’s cheek.  “Love you too.”

Liam nods, nibbling at his lip.  “Can’t get enough.”

Zayn smiles at that, blush sticking to his cheeks, rushing down over his neck and chest while Liam rests his face in between Zayn’s neck and shoulder.  His nose nuzzles at Zayn’s skin and everything feels warm, warm and amazing.

**

Their room is quiet beneath the sounds of thunder rumbling, leaves trampling over the yard, and the soft sound of Liam’s snoring.  He’s not restless, not like he’s been most nights because every day was another day of Louis dotting over him about the wedding, studying for summer exams, playing with Safi, preparing for Safi’s first day of school and his birthday, and more wedding stuff from his and Liam’s mum.  He feels content, buried in Liam’s arms and the sharp scent of some kiwi-tinged body wash Liam uses filters through his nose.

There was a quick shower after the sex, one that was more lazy kisses and playful touches rather than washing up but Zayn didn’t complain.  Liam didn’t either.  Their sheets felt soft over his nearly naked skin – some midnight blue ones Liam picked out at one of those posh shops downtown while Zayn settled on a black duvet, spiraled ivory and inky pillowcases to offset the cherrywood maple color of their bedframe.  Liam’s shirt feels tight around his shoulders – a secondary school t-shirt from when Liam was sixteen that Zayn nicked the last time they visited Liam’s parents – and Liam’s boxers are loose around his hips, the worn material getting caught on the downy hairs of his thighs.

Their clothes are scattered over the room, clean and dirty ones.  The lamp in the corner stands tall, the shadows created by the moon looking dark and ominous.  A few of Safi’s toys are in the corner, the telly hanging on the wall and Zayn thinks this is Liam’s favorite place in the house.  It’s where Liam feels most like himself, something Zayn never tires of.

Zayn buries his face in Liam’s chest for a moment, smiling.  He smells sharp, still a lingering hint of musk and sex remaining, and the hair there tickle Zayn’s nose.  His eyes are shut, Liam’s fingers unconsciously rubbing over his spine while the wind kicks up outside.  Their legs tangle, a natural progression to their sleep pattern, and Zayn wiggles his toes over Liam’s ankles and calves.  The ceiling fan clicks and spins, washing off some of the heat from a bleached out summer, chilling Zayn’s skin at all of the right points until he can taste the autumn making its way through the air.

He doesn’t ignore the soft knock at their slightly ajar door or the way small feet pad quietly over the hardwood floor.  He sighs around another grin, nosing at one of Liam’s nipples while waiting.  He knows what’s coming and anticipation tightens around his stomach.

“Baba,” Safi whines lowly.

Zayn peeks over his shoulder, smirking at the way Safi rubs at his heavy eyes, cheeks flushed and his hair wrecked from tossing and turning.  The thunder shudders against the roof tiles, Safi holding on loosely to that Woody doll with the _Power Rangers_ sleep pants Zayn slipped him into earlier already wrinkled.  Liam hates them – of course Liam would prefer the Batman ones – but Zayn ignores that in favor of nostalgia and a need to balance out Safi’s love for all things Zayn _and_ Liam.

“Yeah Safi?” Zayn calls out, his eyebrow lifting immediately when a slow curling frown runs over Safi’s ruddy lips.

“Can’t sleep,” Safi sighs out, rubbing at his bare chest now.  He’s teetering from foot to foot, bleary eyes still blinking away sleep.

Zayn bites cautiously on his bottom lip, the tender flesh still a bit sore from Liam’s rough kisses.  He smiles at that, fingers tickling lightly over Liam’s skin.

“Okay,” Zayn finally whispers, shifting a little in the bed and it’s almost like clockwork – the way Liam mumbles something, clutching onto his pillow to bury his face in for a brief moment before rolling to his back and smiling sleepily up at Zayn.  He’s scrubbing the heel of his hands at his eyes, yawning loud enough to reach over the sound of the echoing thunder, the way the tree limbs shake outside.  He stretches for a beat, pulling the duvet back with squinted eyes and his hair lying flat against his head.

“I’ll start a pot,” he mumbles, chewing half of his words with another yawn as he stumbles out of the bed.

It’s all quite comical, the way he nearly trips over one of Safi’s toys, scratching blunt nails at his stomach, swiping up his vintage Batman shirt rumpled on the floor with his boxers hanging low on his hips.  He’s walking almost blindly – too many nights like this – and patting Safi’s head fondly before he’s nearly tripping out of their barely lit bedroom.

“Loads of cream daddy!” Safi calls out over his shoulder, a smirk working across those ruddy lips.

Zayn shifts a grin around the teeth still nibbling at his lip, patting at the small space he’s created for Safi on the bed.  Safi scurries up to the bed quickly, Zayn reaching down to lift his son up those few inches he’s too short to climb before Safi’s nearly burying himself beneath the duvet with Zayn, cuddling close.  Zayn waits until Safi’s comfortable, staring up happily at that mural Zayn’s crafted across their ceiling – a swirl of gold, soft purples, the sunset running wildly over a patch of clouds like the one he’s watched a dozen times from the backyard while Liam and Safi start up a late game of footie after dinner.  His small arms are folded behind his head, bright iris-hued eyes blinking back batches of sleep that Zayn knows will overtake him soon enough.

“Have a bad dream Saf?” Zayn wonders, easing down into the bed.  He curls his lean arm around Safi, drawing him closer before pressing a small kiss to Safi’s temple.

“No baba,” Safi says with a drawn out sigh.

Zayn quirks an eyebrow, lips still resting against Safi’s skin while his nose buries itself into Safi’s hair.

“Then why can’t you sleep?”

Safi shrugs his small shoulders, sucking in his bottom lip.  His feet kick beneath the duvet, his frail chest lifting and rising to the tide of thunder outside.

“Saf,” Zayn drags out, narrowing his eyes.

Safi focuses his eyes on a small spot on the ceiling, the corners of his mouth already working into an awful frown.  He remains quiet for another breath, lips pushing out into a pout.

Zayn inches in a little closer, his thumb swiping over Safi’s forehead.  “You scared of the dark, babe?”

Safi sputters a small laugh, shaking his head.  “I’m a big boy, baba.  ‘m not scaredy for the dark no more.”

Zayn chews on his lip to halt a laugh.  It’s almost forgettable the way Safi acts so grown, a five year old going on _twenty-one_ so quickly.  He’s long abandoned that night light Zayn still lights up sometimes – and yeah, maybe he does it more for himself than Safi because, well, Zayn _is_ still kind of scared of the dark – and Safi’s so confident in everything now.  He thinks it’s a touch of Niall, maybe a little too much time with Harry but Zayn doesn’t mind as much as he thinks Liam does.

He nods slowly, his nose wrinkling when Safi huffs out another sigh – just another reminder of how much time Safi spends with his Uncle Lou.

“What is it Saf?”

Tiny teeth nip at a slightly chapped bottom lip, the howl of the wind defiant outside.  A flicker of lightning, not enough to bathe the room in a soft glow but it’s enough for Zayn to catch the way Safi’s brow lowers, his features sharp and a little wounded.

“Uncle Lou says I have to be happy you and daddy are gonna marry,” Safi starts, his voice tiny and curled around uncertainty.  He focuses in on one point of the ceiling again, long lashes sweeping over his cheeks when he fights against the exhaustion still settled against his mind.  “But daddy’s not here _loads_.  And I want him here.  I want to be special even if you and daddy have a wed… a wed, um, a wed-thingy.”

“A _wedding_ , Saf,” Zayn says with a half-bitten snicker, nuzzling his nose to Safi’s velvety soft cheek.  He presses a wet kiss there, a full on laugh breaking when Safi squeaks and scrubs the back of his hand over his cheek.

“Baba,” Safi whines, making a face so reminiscent of Louis.

Zayn loves his best mate, but not enough to let him corrupt his son.

“Safi,” Zayn says quietly, fingers cupping that small chin to pull all of attention toward him.  There’s something soft, untainted slivering over those golden-iris eyes.  It’s mild curiosity, a spot of worry and concern that has Zayn holding his breath for a second.

He knows Liam’s been working more hours, putting a lot of focus into the record shop but not because he doesn’t want to be at home.  It’s not because he doesn’t treasure every second with Safi like Safi was his own.  It’s just, well, Liam’s taking on a heavier load for them.  To help pay for the wedding because his parents _can’t_.  To help take care of the bills that Zayn can’t always pay because his art doesn’t always sell as fast as Zayn would like and writing freelance articles for a magazine, though profitable at times, isn’t a frequent enough provider like the record shop has been over the past few years.  And Liam seems determined to make sure Safi has a brilliant birthday, setting aside enough quid for the three of them to holiday somewhere nice around Christmas rather than dishing out loads for a honeymoon that Zayn knows neither of them really need.

They need time with Safi, their son.  Safi was as much Liam’s as he was Zayn’s.

Zayn hates it, really.  He was raised to take care of himself, a hard lesson he had to learn a few months before Safi was born and his own baba forced him to move out.  He could do it too – raise Safi without this house, this little piece of mind outside of the city.  He’d give it all back for that little flat with the shitty shower, poor lighting in the winter, stuffy little room with no crib for his son to sleep in.  He would gladly share a flat with Niall, who was too busy studying for Uni to really notice Zayn’s existence.  A life with Harry across the hall, spending more time at Zayn’s than his own and that quiet, brown-eyed lad who loves to go for runs in the morning, hates the smell of smoke, knows how to quiet Safi even when Zayn didn’t.

He misses Liam; probably more than Safi.  He misses Liam’s scent in their bed sometimes, the way he curls up to Zayn sometime after five to take a kip with his head in Zayn’s lap while Zayn thumbs through another novel.  Those thick fingers combing through Zayn’s all too stiff quiff, cold toes brushing over Zayn’s sock-covered feet.  The sound of Liam’s laughter during another replay of _Toy Story 2_ or that dopey grin on Liam’s face when there’s tomato sauce from the pasta his mum made them is smudged across Safi’s cheeks.  That sweet smell of citrus, black coffee drizzled with honey and cream, Liam’s favorite brand of toothpaste on his tongue.

Fuck, he misses Sundays in front of the telly with Safi lying across the floor, kicking his feet in the air with his chin on his knuckles and Liam dragging that rough stubble from his chin over Zayn’s cheek, waiting on another kiss.

“Saf,” Zayn sighs out, eyes flicking over Safi’s mouth, his impatient eyes.  He smiles softly, brushing the pad of his thumb over Safi’s small nose before whispering, “Daddy loves you.  He loves _us_.  He’s not going anywhere, I promise.”

“But – “

“And the wedding doesn’t mean you’re not special to us.  To _me_.  Safi Malik, you’re still number one, ‘kay?” Zayn cuts in, chewing on a corner of his lip.

He doesn’t know how to explain it better to someone Safi’s age.  He thinks Liam would be amazing at something like this, like he is with anything that has to do with Safi.

Zayn thinks, sometimes, he’s a shit father.  He’s nothing like his own baba or even someone like Liam’s dad.  He’s just… maybe he’s not ready.

A rolling smile pushes over Safi’s lips.  There’s a brightness to his eyes, his cheeks pushing upward with the kind of grin that tickles Zayn.

“You’re my number one too baba,” Safi cheers, scooting in closer to try and wrap his tiny arms around Zayn’s neck.  “Can Leeyum be number one too?”

Zayn snorts, hugging his son with one arm.  “I don’t see why not.”

“And Uncle Lou is number second,” Safi chimes, his nose scrunching up with a giggle as he pulls back.

Zayn makes a face, teasing Safi with his tongue sticking out.  “Number _two_ , Saf.  He’d be number two.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Safi gasps, throwing a hand over his gaping mouth before smiling.  “Number two, baba.  But don’t tell Uncle Haz and Uncle Ni.  ‘s a secret.”

“Of course not,” Zayn mumbles against the golden crown of Safi’s hair.

“And Uncle Lou – “

 _Uncle Lou is pure evil_ , Zayn thinks to say but he bites on the tip of his tongue before he can.  Louis means well, he really does.  Zayn’s known that most of his life.  It’s just that, well, Louis’ ideas are the worst.  Fucking horrible.  Zayn’s known that most of his life too but he’s settled on giving half of Louis’ ideas a go because he doesn’t have a better idea himself.

Zayn presses his index finger to Safi’s lips, shushing the rest of his words with a gentle smile that comforts Safi more than it discourages him.

“Remember a few months back when I was showing you how to skateboard and you fell?  You hurt your knee?” Zayn asks, pulling his hand back.

Safi nods slowly, wide eyes blinking while the tip of his tongue pushes out between his teeth like he’s trying his best to recall that day.  It flickers across iris eyes, a small frown sliding over his lips.

“I thought daddy was gonna be mad ‘cause I couldn’t do it,” Safi mutters, tipping his chin down a little.

“Right.  But daddy wasn’t mad, yeah?  He helped you get back on and held your hand while you practiced.  And then he brought you in, kissed your cut – “

“It was an _ouchy_ , baba,” Safi whines, a faint giggle dribbling past his lips.

Zayn lifts an eyebrow, an amused grin sliding over his lips.  “Daddy kissed your ouchy and we sat down together to watch – “

“ _Aladdin_!” Safi cheers, reaching out to run a hand over Zayn’s cheek.  Safi’s placating him like Louis would, another small perk of his best mate always being around his son.

“Daddy sat with you for hours, yeah?  He didn’t go anywhere.”

“He sang me ‘til I went night-night,” Safi sighs, his voice a little dreamy.

Zayn nods, biting down nervously on his lip.  He flicks his tongue over them, stroking his thumb under Safi’s star-twinkled eyes.  The dust of a long sleep still feathers over his cheeks, those once large eyes looking heavy and Safi’s fighting his exhaustion more than he’s giving in.

“He didn’t leave you then, Saf, and he’s not going to leave us now,” Zayn promises, leaning in until his forehead rests against Safi’s smaller one.  “He’s just like Aladdin, babe.”

“You’re prettier than Princess Jasmine, baba,” Safi yawns out, stretching his tiny limbs beneath the thick duvet.

Zayn snorts, the edge of his nose stroking Safi’s.  “Not so bad yourself Saf.”

Safi yawns again, curling in closer until his cold toes press against Zayn’s knees, small hands pawing at Zayn’s shirt and his eyes are blinking faster, trying to hold fast to some silly need to stay awake in bed with Zayn.  Zayn bites out a smile, curling his hand around the back of Safi’s head to rub at it.  Those days of an infant Safi resting against his chest, pacifier between his lips with restless movements until he was too knackered to do anything but breathe in Zayn’s scent and fall asleep feel so far away.

Safi’s not that young anymore and it’s a crushing feeling.

Zayn squints his eyes in the dark, grins at Liam leaning in the doorway with two cups in his hands, smiling back.  He nods at Liam, the moon barely peeking through silver clouds of thunder and rain to float over Liam’s skin, the scruff on his face.  The sound of footfalls, bare feet over hardwood leaving toes prickly cold are quick toward the bed before Liam’s carefully hopping back in.

“Extra cream,” Liam whispers as Zayn adjusts Safi in the bed, makes room for Liam with a smirk.

“He’s almost sleep,” Zayn says softly.

“’m not baba,” Safi grumbles, doing his best to sit up and Zayn’s quick to help him, pushing himself up until his back is against the headboard.

Liam smirks, bottom lip protruding in an almost-pout when Safi yawns louder, blinks rapidly.  His brow is scrunched, Safi’s lowered a little as his head nods forward.  He’s too tired but Zayn’s not complaining.  He merely slides an arm around Safi’s hunched shoulders and cradles him as Liam offers him the cup of tea.

Zayn watches Safi sip at it, smiling around the lip of the cup while Liam slurps at his own too hot cuppa.  Zayn’s fingers reach out, play along the back of Liam’s neck, tickling over short hairs.  His thumb slides forward, presses at Liam’s birthmark, watching Liam closely rather than Safi.  Brown eyes watch a corner of the room, drift over the cascading shadows that wrinkle over the wall, splatter spots of darkness over the crisp azure hue Zayn painted it when they first moved in.  Those round cheeks are flushed a soft pink, a wrinkle to Liam’s brow that shows hints of his thoughts.  His nose scrunches when Safi sighs contently, small hands cupping his mug of tea while Liam draws idle shapes across his face with his forefinger and thumb.

Quiet lips press a quick kiss to the top of Safi’s head when Safi finishes half of his tea, large hands helping Safi settle between them on the bed before those lips are running soft kisses over Zayn’s lips.  They remain, Safi’s sleepy complaints be damned, until Zayn can taste the heat from Liam’s tea, the slice of caramel that remains against that bottom lip.  A warm smile against his mouth, Liam’s words caught on a breath but Zayn knows each one of them without hearing them.  He grins back, nipping at Liam’s lips, sliding down the bed as Liam’s fingers curl against his face, the tips cool and comforting.

The night wins the battle over the thoughts that are left unsaid.  The thunder echoes in the distance like a constant reminder of where all of this started.  Warm nights, misty rain, solid bodies against each other with no promise of anything more.  Just a runaway and his silly dreams of one day having something a little more than the monsters that shadowed him, the fear of leaving everything behind, of never being enough for Safi.  That shouldered burden of letting Liam be a one-off, some wicked scent that clung to his sheets long after that first night after too many drinks and Justin Timberlake songs.

Zayn smiles to himself, eyes sliding shut.  Liam’s warm palm settles on his cheek and words ring out in his ears over the clap of thunder, the faint sound of blistering rain – _“When you’re ready… Let me know.”_

**

“You look sharp!”

“I feel ridiculous.”

“Yeah, well,” Louis sighs out, waving a hand between himself and Zayn, “It’s hard not to be when you’re next to someone brilliant like me.”

Zayn sighs under a breath, fiddling with the silly waistcoat that feels too tight, fingers plucking at a few buttons of that crisp white shirt beneath it.  He pulls at the red – “ _Carmine_ ,” the nice, if not pushy attendant told him when they first picked out the colors – tie that hangs loosely around his popped collar and the trousers with the sharp crease are too long, nearly covering his wiggling toes.  He plays with his hair a little in the mirror, frowning.  He feels out of place and, honestly, if his mum and Louis wouldn’t object, he’d get married in his favorite pair of worn jeans, a nice jumper, those old combat boots he’s had since he was seventeen with a scattering of stubble on his face and his hair tucked beneath a beanie.

He knows they wouldn’t approve, Harry wouldn’t either but he doesn’t really see the purpose.  It’s not that he doesn’t like to dress well – his clothing collection has grown massively over the years with button downs, tight-fitting pullovers, a few more leather jackets, a proper pair or two of designer jeans, and more pairs of colorful trainers than Liam owns – but he doesn’t imagine tuxedos and posh shoes when he thinks of his relationship with Liam.

He thinks of Liam in a pair of loose joggers, some graffiti-style comic book t-shirt, high top trainers, maybe one of Niall’s snapbacks with warm cheeks, goofy smiles, and everything the complete opposite of tailored tuxes and boutonnieres.

Their relationship was _comfortable_ , not posh.

It’s some little formal dress wear shop on the edge of the city.  It’s small with an even smaller side of the shop dedicated to men’s suits and tuxedos that Louis agreed upon because, fuck, Zayn was _not_ travelling all the way to London just to find something to wear to his own wedding – fuck classic styles and shit names like Wang, Jacobs, Armani.  It has only three dressing rooms for men – a much larger selection clustered together for ladies’ dresses, wedding gowns, silly formal frocks for school dances and the likes – and the walls are splashed with colorful ties, suit jackets in varied styles, fedoras that Zayn knew Harry would have a go at for hours if he were here.  The hardwood floors are slippery with socks on – which is why his are balled in a corner of his changing room which stupidly has a thick, bulky burgundy curtain instead of a door – and the seating area for guests is a tiny little corner with two plush antique chairs that are fucking _violet_ for Christ’s sake.

It’s so quaint – very much Liam – and Zayn doesn’t hate the place.  In fact, it makes him more comfortable than he expects but this is his _fifth_ time there in a month and he doesn’t feel like it’s much of a home away from home like Liam promised him when they first stumbled upon the shop back in April.  The staff is pleasant, the shop owned by some older woman who walks around with a sewing kit, stringy gray hair always tucked up in a lazy bun with a pair of glasses hanging from a chain around her neck.  She didn’t look down on them the first time they stopped in, squealing when she found out that, yeah, these two lads are actually here to buy tuxes to marry each other rather than, you know, women.  And everyone there is all smiles, patient little nods when someone hates what they’re wearing, and he swears they could sell a plum suit to a chap looking for something simple, sleek, and black with the way they talk.

“You look _fine_ ,” Eleanor insists from one of the chairs in the corner, tucking a few strands of her wavy brown hair behind her ear while crossing her legs.

Zayn thinks it’s easy for her to say that – she’s not wearing this suit on her wedding day.  He smirks to himself because, well, Eleanor did have quite a few fits those times he accompanied her to try on wedding gowns before she married Niall.  He forced Louis to go instead after that one incident where Eleanor sat in the middle of one of the shops with her head in her hands, weeping like a toddler whose toys had been taken away.

“She’s right,” Louis sighs out, doing his best to dust off lint from the shoulders of Zayn’s jacket, fiddling with his tie.  Wide blue eyes give him a once over, grinning.  “Still not as good as me, though.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, thumping Louis on the shoulder with his fist and he can hear the muffled giggle from his mum, Tricia.  He smiles fondly at her as she flips through one of the photo albums in the chair next to Eleanor, sipping at a probably shitty cup of tea one of the clerks offered her when they first arrived an hour ago.

He wants a cigarette and he’s considered three or four times sliding out the back door just to have one, something he’s certain the clerks would fuss at him about – Louis too – while wearing this rather expensive tux that, _fuck_ , he’d never get if it wasn’t for Liam already paying for it.

He hates that.  He could’ve afforded his own suit, shoes too, but Liam’s parents wanted desperately to buy them for him and Liam, something they couldn’t manage because of past due bills.  And Liam insisted, dropping far too many quid on their third visit for the deposit.  It was just another thing Liam did to make this occasion special for everyone.

He hates how it makes him love Liam even more.  He didn’t think things like that were quite possible.

“Such an ego, Lou,” Eleanor says with a gentle sigh, a cheeky smirk sliding over her lips.  It pushes at those nicely carved, high cheekbones that Zayn thinks Louis fell for when they were idiot kids sticking to what they knew.

“You used to love it,” Lou says over his shoulder, grinning back.

Eleanor rolls her eyes promptly, waving him off.  “Years ago.”

Louis fawns and sputters, putting on a mock hurt expression.  “Eleanor Calder.  How dare you.”

Tricia giggles once over, head shaking with her eyes downcast.

“So typical Lou,” Eleanor remarks, sliding her eyes approvingly over Zayn when he straightens his jacket.

“You wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Get over yourself,” Eleanor says with a perked up snicker, rolling her eyes once more.

“But who will get _under_ me?”

“Gross,” Zayn huffs, giving Louis a playful shove while one of the clerks, the one with the black-rimmed glasses, waves of hair pinned up by markers and pens, a measuring tape dangling from around her neck and far too perky for Zayn’s liking gapes at Louis.

Louis shrugs carelessly, toying with Zayn’s tie again before tucking it all into place.

Zayn hates to admit Louis is quite the genius when it comes to things like this – a far better dresser than Zayn though Zayn won’t ever tell his best mate that – and he gives himself a quick look in the mirror after Louis’ straightened his trousers and fiddled with the sleeves of Zayn’s sleek black jacket.  He dances fingers over his own hair, trying to ignore the way Louis smiles smugly at him in the mirror, standing on his tiptoes to look at Zayn over Zayn’s shoulder.

“Not bad,” Louis says with a low whistle.

Zayn snorts, still fussing with his hair.

He doesn’t look ridiculous, well, not like he thought he would.  The waistcoat fits perfectly and the jacket sits right on his small shoulders.  The color is nice, that deep shade of red almost wine-colored.  He cocks his head to the side, chewing at his bottom lip while dusting at invisible threads on his jacket and shirt, playing with the tie until it’s off-center again.  Just like he always remembers his life being, right?  _Always off_ , he thinks, his brow creasing.

“You look fit,” Eleanor chimes.

Tricia nods quickly and Zayn pretends not to see her blot her eyes with a crumbled piece of tissue.  He’s not quite sure how many more times he can handle seeing his mum weep before the wedding actually happens.

He inhales quickly, eyes shutting.  He’s getting married.  Fuck, it has yet to stop taking his breath away: the thought.

“You do, Zee,” Louis whispers like he doesn’t want anyone to hear him.  His chin is tucked onto Zayn’s shoulder, warm hands gripping Zayn’s waist.  “’m happy for you, really.”

Zayn believes him.  He smiles with his lashes still beating against his cheeks, teeth still worrying his bottom lip.  His feet shift coldly over the cheap hardwood and there’s an approving click of teeth from one of the clerks, another sweeping by with a grand smile that Zayn tries to mimic but fails.  No one’s as cheery as this lot, he swears.

“Ni is probably so jealous he can’t see you like this yet,” Eleanor says, snapping off a few pics on her phone when Zayn finally turns toward them, shoulders rolling forward in disappointment.

“That daft little fuck would probably look horrid in this suit,” Louis notes, ruffling the fringe on his head before scratching at the thick layer of scruff lining his mouth.

“You do remember that he is my husband, yeah?” Eleanor wonders, lifting her left hand and that little diamond on her finger catches a delicate hint of the poor lighting in the shop.

“A horrible, drunken memory I still try to forget,” Louis teases, leaning against Zayn while dusting off his own suit jacket.

“Oh Lou,” Tricia sighs, a wonderment of smiles waltzing over her trembling lips.  She’s still giving Zayn little looks – a woman overcome by emotion – that sends little shakes and shivers down Zayn’s spine.

“Dickhead,” Eleanor mutters, flipping Louis off.

“You still love me,” Louis says with a gleam.  Zayn thinks Louis actually believes himself most days.  Well, _every day_.

Part of him wishes Niall was here, Harry too.  He folds his arms, watching a happy couple sweep into the shop with clerks fawning over them like they’re the next coming of the royal family.  He keeps his bottom lip tucked beneath his teeth, eyes flickering downward when the clerk attending to them fusses over Louis’ wrinkling his clothes, taking a few last measurements while Louis and Eleanor trade off more barbs that his mum giggles at, still dabbing at her eyes while looking over Zayn.

Harry would calm him, Niall would say just the right, tragically fucked up things that would have him laughing and not thinking about what he’s going to be doing in a few weeks.  Not that he doesn’t want to get married – because he really does – but it sits on his mind in an almost uncomfortable fashion some days.  Is he good enough for Liam?  Does Liam deserve to carry all of Zayn’s baggage?  Is this what Safi really wants?  Does he deserve this kind of fucked up, Disney-film kind of happy ending?

He’s uncertain and… fuck, he’s just not sure sometimes.

He wishes Harry and Niall weren’t off in London with Liam, doing business things that Liam could explain to Zayn but he’d probably bore of the conversation about numbers, money, property lines.  Liam’s expanding the music shop, opening up a more profitable store somewhere in London on one of those busy streets where it’ll make plenty of money for them.  It’s one of the reasons Liam’s away so much, working on contracts that he drags Harry along for because Harry’s good at shit like that.  And Harry begs Nick, that fucked out boss of his at the Uni radio station, to come along to help because Nick’s kind of great at convincing people to do crazy things like investing money into some small town kid like Liam who just wants to carry on that wild dream his uncle has had since Liam was a kid.  Niall’s along for “moral support” and Zayn knows it’s only because Niall loves travelling to the city, walking the streets, chasing after his own big dreams.  Dreams of being a London-town chap with snapbacks, jumpers, and his beautiful wife wandering the city with him like the little lad from Mullingar has finally made it.

Zayn thinks, one day, Niall really will make that dream come true.

“Baba!  Baba!  Look!”

Safi nearly slides across that plastic floor in his socks, scampering toward Zayn in a miniature-sized version of Zayn’s tux.  He slips a little, colliding with Zayn’s legs and Zayn lets out a huff of breath when Safi’s head slams into his stomach.  Tiny arms reach around him, holding on tightly while Zayn lifts an eyebrow, scrubbing fingers over Safi’s soft hair.

“Wali says I look _sharp_ ,” Safi sputters, pulling back some.

Zayn grins down at him, fingers rounding Safi’s small shoulders to draw him all the way back.  His tie is crooked, one of those clip-on ones that’s probably incredibly cheap but overpriced at a place like this, and his jacket sits weirdly on his small frame.  His trousers are the right length but the zip is undone and bits of his shirt stick out.  It’s all a little amusing, those too wide eyes looking up at Zayn like he’s waiting on Zayn’s approval, a little less confident when Zayn sits in silence for a moment.

“You look ace, Saf,” Zayn says, his words walking astride a breath.  He blinks at his son, chewing on the corner of his lip, the world doing a neat slide sideways until he’s moving toward something burning bright – Safi’s smile.

“I know,” Safi scoffs, playing with the hem of his jacket.  “Uncle Lou tells me all the time!”

Louis snorts, reaching out to run his fingers over the back of Safi’s hair and Zayn offers him a very appropriate glare that Louis shrugs at as if to say, _‘Kid’s got a mind of his own.’_

Louis is an awful influence.  Fucking horrible.

“Your Uncle Lou is full of it Saf,” Zayn says with an accompanying sigh, kneeling down in front of Safi to straighten out his jacket, adjust his tie.

Safi cocks his head to the side, a smile still pushing at his lips until the corners of his large eyes crinkle.

“Full of what baba?”

Louis clucks his tongue while Zayn does his best to suppress his snort – he fails miserably at that.  He shakes his head, scrubbing his fingers over Safi’s soft chestnut-gold hair.

“Nothing Saf.”

“But that’s crazy baba!”

 _No, your Uncle Lou is mental and should be instituted_ , Zayn thinks but he settles for a small chuckle, teeth finding his bottom lip once more.  Everything about Safi’s soft features, the crinkled eyes, that small nose and toothy smile reminds him of Liam.

Fuck, he just wants a cigarette, a strong cup of tea, and an afternoon on that ratty couch from his old flat with Liam’s head on his chest and Safi singing along to a stupid Disney film.

“You okay baba?” Safi wonders, reaching that small hand up to brush over Zayn’s stubbly cheek.

He’s so young yet so mature.  It wrinkles a smile over Zayn’s pushed out lips.

“’m fine, babe.”

“Just a bit nervous about the big day, yeah Zee?” Louis teases, resting his hands on Safi’s petite shoulders.  He gives them a comforting squeeze, nodding at Zayn like he’s expecting Zayn to agree.

Zayn merely nods back, too wrapped in his own thoughts to do otherwise.

“You look so handsome, Safi,” Tricia says from her chair, a glowing smile brimming on her lips and Zayn thinks he spots her dabbing at her eyes again.  He holds in a sigh because, yeah, this is going to get way too emotional before he even utters a vow to Liam.

“Kid does look rather brilliant,” Waliyha says while leaning against one of the walls, a sideways grin on her lips.  “I still want to wear a tux to the wedding.”

“Waliyha, no,” Tricia says flatly, sounding a bit stern but not overbearing.

Waliyha rolls her eyes promptly, adjusting the strap of her shoulderbag before giving Zayn an expectant look.

“Mummy, I think,” Zayn starts but his mum shoots him that look he remembers from being the little eight year old tyrant who would tie Waliyha to her bed and run around their small house like a pirate.

“She’s not, Zayn,” Tricia insists, arms folding over her chest.  She looks a bit out of place trying to be the firm parent but Zayn knows it’s a role she can play very well.  Nearly three years of his life she owned that role without a single thought as to what it did to him and his son.

“Mum, come on.  Get with the times,” Waliyha says with a long sigh, tinkering with the loose strands of her sloppily pinned up hair.  She cocks her head to the side, a sharp sign of defiance that she only gets away with rarely.  “Your only son is marrying another lad.  Who’s going to notice your daughter wearing a suit in all the family portraits?”

Tricia sets her lips into a thin line, eyes narrowed and Zayn almost wants to snort at the relationship his mum and sister share.  It’s all casual disagreements, long hugs, silly laughter, and a dozen things he wishes he could’ve had with his mum.

Maybe he did before he was seventeen, admitting to her that he foolishly got his girlfriend pregnant… Oh, and that he’s probably gay.

Yeah, he’s quite fucking far from deserving a happy-go-lucky, Disney kind of ending.

“I think I would look smashing in it,” Waliyha adds, tipping her head back.

“Very girly,” Louis snorts, rubbing at his chin.

Waliyha cocks up an eyebrow, lips puckering.  “Would do better than you.”

Louis scoffs, a fluttering laugh falling past his lips.  “Are you quite finished?”

“I’m just saying,” Waliyha says almost mockingly, a small lift of her shoulders.  She’s cheeky in ways Zayn never has been.  He loves her, honestly.

“You will _not_ wear a tuxedo, Wali,” Tricia demands, or she tries to but it still comes out warm and contemplative.

Waliyha huffs out a breath, eyes rolling again.  Her lips twist even further sideways and Zayn swears his sister reminds him of that one gymnast who won silver instead of gold during those last Olympics.  She’s unimpressed in a very rebellious way.

Zayn smiles at her, offering her a small wink as a tiny bit of confirmation that, yeah, she can wear a tux.  She can wear a fucking top hat if she wants because there’s nothing traditional or proper about this wedding.  It’s just… well, he just wants to be with Liam in the most promising way.  He doesn’t need the candles, the satin and chiffon or the long, drawn out ceremony.  They’re not having it in a church with a priest and a congregation.  He refuses to walk down any aisle with the Wedding March being played on some old, worn out organ and all of his family cluttering the pews.  In fact, he just wanted something small, simple, _quick_.

A backyard of his immediate family, Liam’s too, a couple of mates, maybe a neighbor or two.  He wanted fucking picnic tables with that spicy chicken dish his mum makes, glasses of lemonade, maybe a few Christmas lights adorning the bare tree limbs and that fence lining the edge of the lawn like blinking stars.  He wanted Safi walking him down some makeshift aisle with his best mates standing at the front, Liam with Harry smiling back at him and just a few seconds of nothing but the two of them confirming their love, Liam reminding him that this thing – you know, the relationship that was never supposed to be – is what he deserves.

He feels an arm come around his shoulders when he stands, biting at his lip when he looks at Louis.  Louis nods at him, a smile tight on his lips like he gets it.  He gets where Zayn’s mind is.  He gets how this is kind of, well, no it _is_ overwhelming for Zayn.  It’s a bit much and it’s daunting and, fuck, Zayn’s stronger than this.  But really, he’s learning the hard way that he’s not always where he wants to be in his head.  But, with Liam, he gets there.  Eventually, he always gets there.

A sigh rolls across Zayn’s lips, his head leaning to rest against Louis’ while Tricia and Eleanor go over swatches, complex suit designs for their husbands, Safi and Waliyha slow dancing to whatever’s playing noisily over the beaten down speakers overhead – _Turn down the lights, turn down the bed. Turn down these voices inside my head._ Louis’ arm slips lower, fingers rubbing idly at the small of Zayn’s back while he watches everything glide into that world he’s not certain he’s ever gotten used to.

“Never expected this, yeah?” Louis wonders, his voice sliding low and honest.

Zayn shakes his head, eyes dropping a little to watch the smile curling across Safi’s lips as he stands on Waliyha’s trainers, letting her guide their dance.

“Never,” Zayn whispers, the word adrift on the invisible breeze creasing over his skin.

“It’s fucking amazing though, right?”

Zayn smiles, eyes sliding shut for a moment because, yeah, it is.

It’s the little things like his sister finding that automatic connection with his son even though she didn’t meet him until he was past that crawling phase, stumbling around his living room with a pacifier still pushed between his lips and shaky legs.  It’s the way his mum just fits into his life now – always there when he calls, constantly dotting over Safi, hugging Liam tightly like he was… like, fuck, like Liam was her _own_ son.  Like she loved him for giving this to Zayn.

It’s in the way Niall and Harry fit together, always teasing each other and trying to outdo the other in a stupid video game.  It’s Louis and Liam – the kind of mates Zayn was with Ant and Danny when he was younger.  Two idiots who like to take a piss at the other, constantly giving Zayn shit even though it’s just their way of saying how much they love him.  The small whispers from Harry to Louis, the loud declarations of love from Louis to Harry.  The way Doniya watches over Safi when Zayn and Liam just need a few hours to themselves, tucked away in the back of Harry’s old, beaten up car that he still hangs onto like a child with his favorite toy.

That look in his baba’s eyes when he sees Safi – uncontrollable joy.  It’s the way Safaa chases after Safi into the green, green grass of a park while Tricia casually reminds Zayn that he was like that as a child – all mental, unstoppable energy, and blissed out smiles.  Just a flickering of grins dancing over his lips when Waliyha sidles up to him like they haven’t missed a beat, their fingers curled together to watch Doniya scoop Safi up and drag him toward the swings while Safaa dances in the middle of a sandbox singing Katy Perry like she understands half the words humming past her lips.

It’s Niall falling asleep with his head on Eleanor’s shoulder while Louis curls up to her other side, Harry on the floor.  Safi’s usually coiled up in Liam’s lap while they all sit around watching films for hours, ticks of laughter, Harry ruining the plot of almost every film they watch while Zayn casually runs his fingers through Liam’s hair.  Little kisses – they go from Liam to Safi, Zayn to Liam, Liam to Zayn – while Louis presses his sock-covered toes into Zayn’s back and mumbles a laugh against Eleanor’s shoulder.

This little – well, maybe _not_ – family that circles themselves around him like this has always been.  Maybe not in this form, but it sort of always has.

“’m a bit jealous,” Louis admits, shifting from foot to foot for a moment.

He looks incredibly young, insecure – nothing like the Louis Tomlinson who convinced him to buy a stupid fucking plant to liven up his flat.

“Why?”

Louis shrugs, still leaning in close, his fingers pushing a little more firmly against Zayn’s back.  Gentle rubs like it’s comforting Louis now – _Lay down with me, tell me no lies. Just hold me close; don’t patronize_.

“You have _this_ ,” Louis mutters, waving his hand idly around the shop – his mum running her fingers over suit jackets, Eleanor chatting mindlessly on her mobile, Safi and Waliyha doing a neat little spin around a few of the passing clerks.

“This?”

“Family,” Louis says with a rough sigh, his foot tapping along to the melody – _Don’t patronize me_.  He clears his throat, once bright eyes looking dim.  “’m a part of it but, I don’t know.  Sometimes I wish it was me.”

“You want Liam, eh?” Zayn teases, elbowing Louis gently.  It sparks up a small smile on Louis’ lips.

“He couldn’t handle me.”

Zayn rolls his eyes immediately, choking on a laugh.  He reaches a hand up to string his nimble fingers through Louis’ semi-styled hair, musing it a little and Louis doesn’t seem to mind.

“You have it too,” Zayn reminds him, his voice just as hushed as Louis’ earlier.  He breathes in Louis’ too strong cologne, the sweet scent of peaches and an apple body wash that was probably all Harry – _‘Cause I can’t make you love me if you don’t. You can’t make your heart feel something it won’t_ – and Louis clings a little tighter to him.

“Think so?”

Zayn smiles brighter, nodding.  He knots his fingers into a thick section of Louis’ hair, eyeing the way Eleanor grins at them.

“You’ve got Haz.  You’ve got the life you wanted when we were younger and all you could think about was meeting that one guy who – “

“Who I’d hate so much that I’d love him, hmm?” Louis offers with a token grin that’s all Louis.

Zayn grins at it, watching the way Louis’ eyes brighten.

“And, in a few months, you’ll have something else,” Zayn reminds him, teeth pulling at a corner of his bottom lip.

Louis yanks out his phone, unlocking it before swiping his thumb over a few things to pull up a black and white picture.  It’s not unfamiliar to Zayn – he’s seen something like it when Perrie was further along with Safi, still worrying him about how young they were, how this thing between them wasn’t going to last.  He reaches up, running his own thumb over the screen and the corners of his mouth are lifting.

It’s an ultrasound.  A small picture that Louis’ has saved in his phone for weeks now of his unborn daughter.  She’s curled around herself, every little piece of her features highlighted, and Zayn thinks Louis glows differently every time he looks at the picture.

The first was all blues and ivories, shock hovering against Louis’ system too long because he couldn’t take it all in – the way they found out that, yes, they were special enough that someone would give their baby to two idiots like Harry and Louis.  The next time was nothing but shades of red, little hints of embarrassment and blush ruling Louis’ face as Harry went on and on about meeting the young woman, how she complimented Harry’s dimples and gave Louis shit about what he was wearing.  How she said they would be perfect parents and Zayn watched that little glimmer in those blue eyes spark a little too brightly at the thought – _Louis was going to be a dad_.  Each time after that was a new shade – burnt up yellows from laughter, cool mint greens from watching Zayn and Safi and knowing that, one day, it’ll be him and his daughter.  This time it’s sun-fire oranges, his glow, the way he can’t stop smiling like he knows it’s soon.

They both know, come December, Louis and Harry will have something of their own.  Just a taste of what Zayn’s been living for years now: feeling whole.

It’s a warm feeling, the kind you have just before the holidays or when the sun sits high at the beginning of summer.  It’s a softer side of Louis and, honestly, Louis doesn’t have a _soft side_.  He’s evil personified.  He’s a selfish, cheeky bastard who only really loves himself, Zayn, Niall, and Eleanor too.  He’s madly in love with Harry Styles and, if you ask him, he’ll deny it.  He adores Safi to bits, but he feels the same way about his sisters and Zayn thinks it’s because Louis knows his only chance at not spending an eternity in the underworld is by being nice to kids.

“She’s going to be perfect,” Louis says quietly, almost awe-stricken.

Zayn bites down gently on his bottom lip.  He gives a small nod, his thumb tracing over the shape of her head – _Morning will come and I will do what’s right. Just give me ‘til then to give up this fight._

“She will be.”

“Of course,” Louis scoffs, jerking his phone away and pocketing it again.  “Look at her parents.  Well, look at _me_ at least because that boyfriend of mine – “

“Boyfriend,” Zayn repeats with a small snort.  Louis is rarely willing to call Harry that.

“Fuck off,” Louis hisses, nudging Zayn with his hip.  A playful smile runs over his lips, oceanic eyes going narrow.  “Again, she’ll be perf.  And I will be an ace father, with a nanny.  No, _two_ nannies.  Always have a backup plan.”

See, evil incarnate.  Zayn wonders why he’s bothered to let Louis spend so many years with his own son.

A few of the clerks are surrounding them, taking a few last minute measurements, doing adjustments, comparing new jacket styles because his mum doesn’t know if she likes the one he’s wearing and Zayn just needs a fucking smoke.  He needs a cup of black coffee, an hour in the corner somewhere just to breathe, and the air around him feels stale, unpleasant.  He’s gnawing at his lower lip while Safi sits in Waliyha’s lap in the corner, Eleanor now arguing softly with Louis about Zayn’s hair – Louis thinks it should be slicked back, Eleanor prefers the quiff.  Zayn would prefer they shut the fuck up and work on getting him that cigarette break – and his mum is on the phone with Doniya or Safaa, maybe his baba, discussing every little detail of Zayn’s look until he think he hates it.

He hates that Niall’s not here to distract him or Harry to distract Louis.  He hates that he wishes Liam wasn’t so traditional sometimes, refusing to see Zayn in his tuxedo like Zayn’s some fucking bride in a white dress.  They weren’t traditional.  They were not a cliché.

Fuck, he needs something filling his lungs other than his dead summer air in the shop.

Something slow, acoustic plays over those cheap shop speakers – _If you don’t know if you should stay. If you don’t say what’s on your mind. Baby, just breathe_ – and Zayn bites back a sigh, glancing out the store window to watch the leaves pinwheel towards the ground.  They’re already turning a sharp gold color, the break of something warm and sunny leaving trails of dust behind to make room for autumn.  The rough streets outside aren’t filled with convertibles with the tops down, loud music, the streets of a worn out summer fading.  It’s quiet, mums walking their kids from shop to shop with clasped hands.  There’s a yellow school bus in the distance, a few cars driving slowly down the street just before the rush of traffic.

The world seems noiseless and he closes his eyes for a moment to sink into that feeling.

“ _Oh_ ,” Tricia gasps when she finally hangs up her call, grinning tightly.  Her hand covers her mouth for a moment, teary eyes looking on Zayn again.  “You look… oh gosh.”

“Mummy,” Zayn says with an offbeat sigh, a nervous smile sliding over his lips.  He can feel the thick heat kissing his cheeks, coloring it a soft pink shade he can see in the wall length mirror just to the side of him.

“Brilliant, bro,” Waliyha coos and Zayn thinks to remind her that words such as _“bro”_ and the likes were to be left to hipsters like Harry, not them.

“Brilliant,” Safi repeats, dragging the word out slowly and it’s heavy on his tongue.

Zayn smirks, crossing his arms until one of the clerks fusses because she’s still trying to measure out the jacket, adjust the waistcoat beneath.

“Amazing,” Louis whispers, blinking back the awe glazing his blue eyes.  He drags slow fingers through Zayn’s hair, trying to make it stand up taller.  “Not bad, chap.”

Zayn laughs, the sound short and clipped, half of it still lingering in his chest before he’s smacking Louis’ hand away.

“Liam’s awfully lucky,” Eleanor adds with that sideways smirk she mastered when they were sixteen and she was helplessly in love with Louis.

He misses days like that – _You could sing a melody to me and I could write a couple of lines_ – when life was on the brink of being something deeper, darker, breathier with the consequences of every little thing he did.

He wouldn’t trade any of them back for the moments he’s stolen with Liam.  Not a single one would be worth it.

“Oh Zaynie,” Zayn hates when his mum calls him that though she only seems to do it in the company of others to embarrass him, “you should definitely use this as the song you two have your first dance to.”

“Zayn doesn’t dance,” Louis says quickly, looking around at everyone in the shop as if it was common knowledge.

“Don’t be silly, he _does_ ,” Tricia chirps with a bright, sunny laugh.

“Zayn doesn’t dance,” Waliyha cuts in before Zayn can say anything, narrowing her eyes with a sideways look.  There’s a sharpness to her voice, a quick shake of her head and Safi’s glancing around like he’s lost on it all.

Zayn might be too.

“Everyone dances,” one of the clerks insists, her own giggle an echo of falsity that Zayn tries not to be irritated with.

“Zayn doesn’t,” Waliyha argues, her eyes growing smaller.

“It’s a beautiful song,” Eleanor notes, leaning against Louis with a soft smile.

Louis gives a small shrug, nodding.  “But he doesn’t dance.”

“Zaynie, you _have_ to,” Tricia begs, finding her way to her seat from earlier.  She plops down, shaking her head in Zayn’s direction.  She’s daring him to disagree.

He chews on his bottom lip, shrinking like he’s Safi’s age and he drags his foot over that cheap hardwood until he can’t find the words to say what Louis and Waliyha have already said.  And it’s true – he doesn’t dance – but it’s not like he and Liam haven’t discussed it.  He knows there will be a small reception – well, a _big_ one because Harry had been insistent, and then El, Niall, even Liam’s mum had persisted until this whole thing became a grand affair – and there’s been chats about a dance or two but Zayn’s not really looking forward to it.  He’s awful at dancing, stiff and uncoordinated and nothing like Liam.  But how could he not give his mum that moment?

He takes in a quick breath – _There’s nowhere else tonight we should be. You want to make a memory_ – and his fingers itch for that cigarette.

“I think it’ll be lovely,” Eleanor says dreamily, resting her head on Louis’ shoulder.

“Love, you have to,” Tricia says again, her face wrinkling with delight.

“Zayn doesn’t dance,” Louis and Waliyha say together, slowly, waiting a beat before they exchange a knowing look, grinning tightly.

Zayn huffs out a breath, rolling his eyes and he settles for fixing his own waistcoat rather than discussing any of it.  He spreads his fingers over the stiff fabric, smoothing it down, popping the top button of his shirt because it feels too constricting.  He can’t breathe properly and, honestly, he just wants to settle into his bed, spread out like a starfish, with Liam blanketing him.

**

He’s sliding into the t-shirt he came in with, his jeans barely hanging off of his hips when Louis draws back the curtain to his dressing area, shuffling in.  Zayn quirks an eyebrow immediately, the shirt half-on, with the gush of rundown air conditioner breezing over his naked skin.

“Privacy much?” Zayn wonders, teeth already finding his bottom lip as he fastens his belt, slides into his beat up boots that he’s had for years now and can’t seem to get rid of.  They remind him of home – not the one with his parents but that small flat with Niall, no crib for Safi, and the boy with the wide shoulders across the hall – and, fuck it, he doesn’t care if everyone else tells him to get rid of them.  He’s not.

Louis pokes at the card tattooed over Zayn’s ribs, his finger dragging down to the thick, blocky heart on his hip before sighing deeply.  He’s troubled, Zayn can tell, but Zayn never poses the question.  Louis is like a deer in moments like this – you can’t run up to them; you have to wait quietly for them to come to you.

“I’m gonna be a dad,” Louis says, his words a soft roll against the buzz of the shop.

Zayn nods slowly, his brow knit together.  He slides his other arm into his shirt, letting it roll down naturally before combing his fingers through his ruffled hair.  The product’s softening and all of the prodding, poking, pulling from all of them has left it pretty fucked out.

“It’s scary,” Louis mutters, leaning against the mirror, tipping his head back.  “’m excited but I’m scared Zee.”

Zayn doesn’t feel the need to remind Louis how much he hates the nickname.  He leans against the wall opposite of Louis, the small space between them cluttered with words unsaid.  He inches a foot forward, kicking at Louis’ already scuffed up Tom’s, watching the way the corners of Louis’ mouth droop a little.  His fingers rub at the end of his nose, scratch over his scruff and Louis’ turning a little pale, waiting.

“I was too,” Zayn admits, his fingers dragging over his neck.  “Freaked out.  Completely.  I was fucking terrified, Lou.”

Louis nods.  He knows all of these things.  It wasn’t that Zayn clung to Louis when Perrie was pregnant, huddling in Louis’ bedroom to cry and shiver through the night.  They had a few, little chats that never really went anywhere but Zayn never told Louis how he felt about Perrie being pregnant, about him being a father so young.

He thinks it was tattooed in big, block letters across his body every time anyone saw him: _Fear_.

“I didn’t think I was gonna be a great father to him, Lou,” Zayn adds, eyes flickering downward.  He watches the way Louis’ foot taps out the rhythm of the music – _It must’ve been love but it’s over now. It must’ve been good but I lost it somehow_ – and his fingers drum along his thigh to the same beat.

Zayn lifts his eyes, smiling quietly as Louis tries to school his face into something blank, unreadable.  This trick of his, going stone hard and unbreakable, has never worked with Zayn.  Louis’ tried, years upon years, but Zayn knows him better.

“It happens,” Zayn assures him, reaching out that small distance, his hand settling against Louis’ arm.  “You’ll do fine.”

Louis’ laugh is short, wet and Zayn watches him blink back tiny tears like he’s been holding this in for too long now.

“Of course I will,” Louis says dryly, tilting his head further back to stop the tears.  “I’m the fucking Tommo.”

Zayn laughs at that, fingers creeping upward to curl around Louis’ shoulder.  He strokes it gently, just a small reminder that he’s here for Louis.

“You’ll be a sick father,” Zayn adds soothingly, his grin slipping sideways over his mouth until his tongue pushes at his teeth and his eyes crinkle a little.  “Or, at least, Harry will.”

Louis punches him, blunt and quick, and fuck it hurts but it’s worth it to see the way Louis’ lips finally curl back into a smile.

“You’re being a fucking twat,” Louis grumbles around a shy laugh, fingers rubbing absently at the area he’s just punched.

Zayn gives a half-shrug, licking at his lips.  There’s a reflective smile forming over his mouth, the taste of that minty gum Louis offered him an hour ago to curb his need for a smoke still lingering.

“’s my job.  Best mate rules and all,” Zayn replies a bit carelessly, his words streaked quiet.

The roar of the air conditioner kicking back in buzzes just enough that Zayn focuses on it rather than the voices outside – “Wali, you’re _not_ wearing a suit to your brother’s only wedding.  You’ll wear a dress.  Something pink.  _Neon_ pink.”  He thinks his mum has awful taste or just loves to continue that tit-for-tat thing she’s always had with Waliyha – but he can still hear the patterned sound of Louis’ breathing.

Louis drags a hand down his face, smoothing out all of his features, fucking his hair as much as Zayn’s is.

“You two idiots decided on a last name yet?”

Zayn tips his head back this time, dragging his teeth just on the edge of his lip.  It already feels raw – too many times doing this same thing with people pulling on his clothes, begging him to stand still when the world knows that’s something Zayn Malik just can’t do – and he doesn’t mind the sharp pain when his teeth bite at the inside of his mouth.  He drags the heel of a boot over the floor, fingers reaching out to brush away invisible lint from his now hung up trousers, feeling the plastic from that silly garment protection bag that remind him of that daft suit he was going to wear to the autumn dance with Perrie.  They never made it – she was eighth months pregnant and he was a fucking coward.  One day, he hopes Perrie will stop hating him even though she promised she already had years ago.

“Not completely,” Zayn mumbles, his words chewed on by his teeth biting at the tip of his tongue.  He sniffs, rolling his tongue over his lips, the sharp, chapped skin bending and going slick.

“Fucking bullshit,” Louis says with a snort, smacking Zayn’s arm this time.  He’s compulsively violent, another downside of Louis being his best mate.

Zayn shrugs again because he can’t think of much else to do.  His mind spins, eyes flickering over the ceiling fan just outside, the way it ticks and creaks a little too classically.  There’s nothing really modern about this shop other than the fancy garments and Zayn’s reminded again why Liam loves it so much.  Just like Liam loves that dusty, old record shop for its vintage appeal despite Harry constantly trying to update it – Liam’s spent more hours yelling at Harry for trying to add iPod stations and other technological bullshit rather than actually selling any of those old Eric Clapton vinyl records boxed in a corner of the shop – and Zayn thinks maybe it’s kind of adorable.  Maybe everything about Liam is classic, vintage, homely.

He wonders if that’s a bit clichéd.  Not really.  Nothing about Liam could be considered that.

“When?” Louis wonders, not really offering anything else because he doesn’t have to.  They’re like seven year olds with their own secret language, flashlights in the dark, and sleeping bags thrown on a dirty old basement floor.

Zayn sucks on his lip rather than biting at it, teeth white and sharp from under his top lip.  He wants a cigarette behind his ear, one between his lips, and a nice drink of that hard cider Niall got him hooked on after their first year in that flat together.

“Soon,” Zayn offers but it’s not really an answer.  Well, not one Louis’ looking for.

“How hard could it be?” Louis gushes, tapping the toe over his skipper over Zayn’s boot, rocking from side to side like a toddler.

 _Impossibly_ , Zayn thinks but it’s not really.  It’s just… he’s tired.  He’s tired of making decisions; he thinks Liam is too.  Where do you want to get married?  What do you want to wear?  Do you want fish served with the chicken?  What’s Safi going to wear on his first day of school?  Is Liam ever going to try to adopt Safi?  Why are you still doing art if it barely pays the bills?

He’s just tired and trying to figure out one more piece to this puzzle makes him want to scrap the whole thing.  Not the thing he has with Safi and Liam.  That’s endless, irremovable from his life.  Just everything else.

Zayn drags his fingers through his hair, watching it spin around into bits and curls like a hurricane.  His thumb sweeps over his eyebrow, smoothing out the wayward hairs and he listens to a rush of air escape Louis’ lungs.

“Hey,” Louis says, his voice delicate.  He’s rubbing at Zayn’s shoulder, the equal balance to this little thing they have as mates.  Unspoken understanding that Zayn fucking loves on days like this.

“I don’t know Tommo.  Fuck, I don’t know.”

Louis smiles, something considering and honest.  “It’s just a last name Zayn.  Who cares, right?  You’re marrying that idiot boy from across the hall.  You can change your last name to Van Helsing and no one will give two shits because, fuck, you two _deserve_ this.  If anybody I know does, it’s you and Li.”

Zayn bites around a grin, nodding.  He wants to laugh really – Louis _hated_ that film even though Zayn made him and Niall watch it, pointing out all the inaccuracies of it all because it fucking bothered Zayn, okay? – but he settles for resting a hand over the one Louis has on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

He clears his throat, scuffing the floor with his boot before saying, “I want Liam to decide.  I want him to feel like this is comfortable for him.  All of this.”

Louis smirks like he gets it.  He thinks Louis, of all people, always did.

The sweep of bodies outside of that thick curtain border drags along his ears.  He can hear Eleanor’s heels clacking over the floor, his mum’s sweet humming and Safi trying to sing along to something playing above but he doesn’t know any of the words still, at least he has the harmony down.  There’s running commentary from one of the clerks about someone’s wedding from a weekend ago and he can hear the daft complaints of a customer who obviously wanted “springtime white” and not “winter ivory” somewhere in the background.

“He’s massively in love with you, you know,” Louis notes, reaching out to fix one of Zayn’s stray strands of inky hair.  “It’s kind of maddening.  I think I saw Harry get sick over it once.”

Zayn rolls his eyes with a giggle, shooing Louis’ hand away when he tries to style Zayn’s hair.  He’ll just slip a beanie over it later, wait until Liam’s fingers settle into it when they’re alone, tangled in sweaty sheets that are probably wet with their come.

“Zayn Payne,” Zayn snickers out, cocking his head to the side.  He arches an eyebrow with Louis, both of them falling into laughter.

“You’d be better off changing your last name to Horan,” Louis teases, cheeks bunched up and red from laughing.

Zayn flips him off and, fuck, he needed that.  Just a breath of laughter, of being freed from the burden of all of this.  All of this that started with another one of Louis’ stupid ideas to Liam – _“If you love him that much, you should just get hitched.  Fucking hell, just propose to Zayn.”_ – and he doesn’t hate Louis completely for it.

The fade of the summer bites at his skin, still huddled in this little space with Louis and he’s waiting for it to finally exhale its last breath and make way for autumn, for October.  He’s ready to walk the stone steps into that banquet hall – they’re not getting married in a church because he knows his baba wouldn’t exactly approve and Liam’s not all that comfortable with it either – and carry on with this wedding.  Zayn was raised Muslim, Liam’s parents were brought up Roman Catholic and he’s certain they’ve already crossed enough red lines with, you know, being together and fucking like rabbits before marriage anyway.  It’s not that he’s trying to win his baba’s approval but, honestly, he has to win one battle and not discarding his religion in favor of something wildly traditional – clichéd, really – seems like the right thing to do.  Liam agreed, thankfully, and their parents really haven’t said much since that initial conversation.

“You are, you should know,” Louis quietly says, his hand cupping Zayn’s cheek for a moment.  The drizzle of something cryptic reigns in his voice but those January blue eyes, ones he’s read the death of something brilliant off of so many times, are a sky of hope.

“What?”

Louis snickers, patting Zayn’s cheek a little roughly before turning, opening the curtain.  It sweeps back and forth for a moment, Louis glancing over his shoulder with the kind of smirk that probably exists only in the belly of the underworld.  Fucking evil.

Something softens in his expression, Zayn watching him while still leaning against the wall.

“A good father.  You turned out to be a great father to him,” Louis explains briefly, lips puckering into one of those knowing looks.

Zayn blinks at him, the flush of something pink smacking his cheeks as Louis walks away, falling into a tight embrace with Eleanor like they haven’t seen each other in years.  She giggles into his shoulder, shrieking when Louis picks her up to spin her around but Zayn finds his eyes more on Safi tucked in his mum’s lap rather than those foolishly, still in love mates of his.

Safi’s chin is tucked, the warmth of a dying summer sun pressing over his cheeks, glittering over the blonder spots in his hair.  The corners of his mouth are quirked, his small nose wrinkling with a sharp laugh while Zayn’s mum thumbs through a few pictures on her phone.  His lengthy lashes – so much like Zayn, breaths of Perrie – fall over his cheeks, leave behind bright shadows over his skin and there’s a moment when his head lifts, the copper of the sun gleaming off blue-lavender eyes, that has Zayn’s breath hitching.  He can hear it, the intake of air versus the breaths out.  He’s beautiful, a spark of something incredibly real in this world that Zayn can watch for hours.  A piece of himself and, suddenly, he thinks maybe he does deserve Liam.  For bringing this shard of brilliance into the world, he deserves Liam and the way he fills in those spaces ripped open by the heart that was broken long ago.

**

He’s been staring at the same page in his sketchbook for two hours.  He’s resting his chin on his knuckles, sitting on one of the counters in the kitchen, his feet dangling and kicking back against the cupboards.  He shades a dark colored pencil over the corner every few breaths, the pace of his heart thudding in his ears.  He bruises his bottom lip with his teeth, lashes falling over his cheeks like smudges of dark ink.  He chews at his thumbnail occasionally, considering the notion of adding more color, inking a darker outline across a few of the lines but he never manages to do much more than stare.

It lasts another twenty minutes before he breathes out a heavy sigh, his thumb running over that same corner that’s scratched by the tip of his pencil.  He wants to pull his fingers through his thick, dark hair but it’s hidden beneath one of Niall’s old snapbacks, the one he left behind after one of their film nights when he was too busy snogging Eleanor to understand the dimensions hidden beneath the layers of _Sucker Punch_ – “I just think they’re all sick and fit,” Harry had said until Louis kissed him quiet too.  The corners of his mouth pull downward, an uneasiness setting his shoulders forward, rounding them in a slumped fashion.

His bare feet are a bit cold, the entire house quiet and the sound of crickets outside is a bit menacing but he blocks it out.  The kitchen is cast in a warming darkness, the light of a blue flame flickering to the side of him.  It’s one of those daft candles Harry loves – this time its honeysuckle and kind of endearing in its scent – and it lights the room up enough, the moon peeking through a roll of clouds to add a soft wash of white to the tiling of the floor.  He wiggles his toes, tapping the edge of a Sharpie against the page this time and he hollows out his cheeks with a breath.

He’s been fussing with this page for a week now.  It started off so simply, like most of his stuff does, but there’s something bruising about the way this one picture sticks with him.  The way he feels the need to finish this one, hang it up on that nice, sterling silver refrigerator Liam’s parents manage to buy them to replace the old one.  He wants it to sit with all of Safi’s scribbled drawings of fire trucks, a bright orange sun, the one of the puppy Safi wants but Zayn and Liam know now is not the time for Safi to have a dog.  A few years, maybe, but not now.

It’s silly, really, the way he worries over the half-finished image.  It’s just a sketched out drawing of Safi on a swing in the backyard, one that he’s managed to add color to, swiping sharp lines with that nice ink pen Liam bought him last Christmas.  It’s a drawing he started a few weeks back when the August sun burned a halo light over the yard, the grass much greener, the air much warmer.  Just a broken off memory he wants to hold onto because, tomorrow, Safi starts school.

Safi’s a late starter, being born in October, and Zayn was fortunate to get him into Reception before he actually turned five.  That was simple, something Safi got used to after the first few weeks of crying anytime Zayn didn’t lag behind with him, but Year One is different.  Reception is juice boxes, sandwiches, playing on the playground for a few hours and Zayn doesn’t even think Safi remembers most of it.  He doesn’t, actually, but maybe it was because that’s when all of this wedding stuff became so real and he spent half the time Safi was away trying to figure out venues, money, why Louis wanted him to wear a pink suit while Harry wanted Zayn to wear white – “You look sick in anything Zee,” Harry promised.

Admittedly, Zayn’s not ready.  He’s just… _fuck_ , he’s not ready.

There’s a sunset streaked in the background of the picture, something colored orangey with pink shaded skies, hints of yellow and swirling blue colliding.  It hovers over Safi’s head, Zayn never taking time to shade off the bits that he knows cast over Safi’s small form but he’ll add all of that later.  He’s almost got the proper color of Safi’s eyes – he’s searched a few art shops in the city for something resembling iris, maybe a deep blue that’s almost rounded out by lilac – and he’s sort of proud of how he’s made sure they’re large and bright.  He’s worked for hours, sketching and erasing until his fingers were smudged in charcoal and lead, on the roundness of Safi’s cheeks.  He’s tinted them pink, just around the edges, like Liam’s when he’s terribly fond of something or shy about the words Zayn whispers to him.

He cocks his head to the side, the dance of light from the candle leaving a gold blush over the paper while he looks at the lines of Safi’s hair.  It’s halfway there, the smooth sway of it but Zayn remembers Safi’s hair styled up into an almost Mohawk-like quiff that day – something Louis opposed but Zayn gave Liam liberty to do what he wanted with Safi’s hair that month and, fuck, Zayn hates to admit that he adored the way they looked, father and son, the day Liam brought Safi home from the barber shop – and he hates how he can’t quite capture the set of Safi’s eyebrows that day.  At least he’s managed to get Safi’s shirt right, the way his trainers looked kicking against the air, the rumple of his jeans while swinging on the swingset.  He’s not good with drawing out hands and fingers but he thinks Safi’s look right with those tiny fingers curled around the chains supporting the swing and he wrinkles his brow at the delicious smile on Safi’s lips.

No, he’s definitely not ready for his son to start Year One.  Or to grow up.  Fuck it all, he’s a cliché.

Zayn licks at his lips; he can still taste the nicotine from his last cigarette against the chapped flesh.  He sucks in a breath, reaching out blindly for a colored pencil, something to add life to the curl of Safi’s lips.  He lets his other hand roam over his sharp cheeks, fingers jumping at the feel of stubble and the world seems to fall back in that undisturbed silence his mind keeps interrupting.  The world doesn’t seem so distracting when he thinks about Safi and, for a moment, it’s all he does.

He hears the shuffle of thick sock-covered feet sliding over the tile, leaning in with his eyes lifting up.  He stares blankly at Liam for a minute – _You say, ‘I love you, boy.’ I know you lie_ – as he moves sluggishly through the kitchen, all sleep-warm with a rumpled Batman t-shirt, basketball shorts that hang low and baggy, and a snapback pushed just far enough back on his head that Zayn can still spot the sepia-shaded hair that lies beneath.  He’s rubbing at the nape of his neck, sipping at a steaming cup of tea with something untouchably earnest in his glow.  Those feet slip on the tiles a little, each step a little clumsier than the last until he’s to the left of Zayn, leaning his elbows on the counter, looking up at Zayn.

Liam rubs at his eyes a little, pinching the bridge of his nose, sniffing before brushing his knuckles over the edge of his nose.  Those lips, full and needing to be kissed, fold into something that’s half-frown, half-contemplative and Zayn bites down on his own lip to hold back the ways he wants to describe how lovely Liam is.

He really is.

Liam’s shoulders slump forward, eyes tracing over the lip of his cup rather than Zayn – _I trust you all the same. I don’t know why_ – and Zayn can smell the headiness of caramel, orange spice, traces of milk, and ginger.  Zayn smiles to himself – the ginger is something Liam’s mum loves in her tea, another little idiosyncrasy that Zayn could never get behind but loves wholeheartedly about Liam – and reaches out to stroke the back of his fingers over Liam’s soft cheek, the scratchiness of his scruff pleasing Zayn.

Liam sips at his tea again, humming quietly, reaching out toward the stove.  He pulls the tin foil from that last slice of rhubarb pie Tricia made for them – it’s a little piece of his childhood that reminds Zayn of every little piece of his roots, his mummy’s British side – before forking into it.  He mashes it around in his mouth for a moment, blinking up at Zayn and he looks exhausted.  He looks soft, cuddly, and exhausted and Zayn bites on the smile that wafts over his lips.

“Can’t sleep?” Liam wonders after a swallow of tea, the steam still rising effortlessly.

Zayn tips his head back, fingers splayed over his sketchbook.  He breathes in citrus, faded cologne, a hint of the city that always lingers on Liam’s skin, even after a shower.

“A bit, yeah,” Zayn admits and he doesn’t know why.

It’s not that he openly hides this from Liam – the way he sits for hours thinking rather than doing anything else – but he doesn’t drag Liam down into his arms to discuss any of it.  He’s spent too many years living without this – _a companion_ – and it feels fitting that he continues on that trek he’s done just fine on before that stupid plant, the curly-haired neighbor, and falling in love.

Liam nods slowly, another small bite of pie reaching his lips before they slide into a frown.

“You’ve been doing this for two days,” Liam notes, jerking his head toward the still untouched picture, waving his hand at Zayn.  “Scares me a bit.”

Zayn laughs, low and clipped, but it still breaks through his lips.  He’s not nervous, well, he is but not because of Liam.  It’s the feeling that seems to meld so easily with anything associated with Liam – ‘ _Cause when my back is turned, my bruises shine. Our broken fairytale, so hard to hide._

Zayn reaches out again, his thumb pressing to a corner of Liam’s mouth.  “’m fine.”

“Liar,” Liam mumbles around another bite, eyes sliding shut.  “Just tell me.”

Zayn swallows, tries not to let himself become overwhelmed.  There’s wrinkles in Liam’s brow, his fuzzy eyebrows lowering while his fingers draw lazy circles over Zayn’s knee.  He can smell a hint of cinnamon – probably from those biscuits Waliyha gave Safi and Zayn smiles to himself knowing Liam nicked some while reading Safi a bedtime story – and he holds in a sigh.

“Don’t wan’ Saf to go to school,” Zayn says under a breath, one that’s rushed and hollow.

Liam nods, smiling a little.  “Me neither.”

Zayn blinks at him for a moment, all wide-eyed and shocked.  Something electric sparks against his fingertips, the ones that are now sliding over the hairs on Liam’s forearm.

He drops his eyes away, smiling against the teeth that are ripping at his bottom lip.  The air in the kitchen is much thicker, warmer than the rest of the house and he thinks the stove still hasn’t lost its fire from all of the delicious dishes his mum made while Zayn waited impatiently for Liam to return from the record shop.  His heel kicks back at a cupboard, the sharp sting dull compared to the catch in his breath, the stutter of his heart – _I still believe it’s you and me ‘til the end of time_.

The kitchen feels so big when he’s alone but small when Liam’s there.  Maybe it’s because he’s always so drawn to Liam, reaching out a small distance just to feel the little touches, the calloused fingers, the warm skin, the little pulse beneath it that picks up whenever Zayn’s hands roam Liam’s body.  The slide is much warmer, sticky and he doesn’t feel pathetic because he wants it all the time.  He just does.  And he thinks it’s rather brave to admit that to yourself.

Liam’s always been brave for both of them, Safi too.

“He won’t be alone,” Liam tells him, his voice rough and dragging.  He clears his throat, looking up and Zayn wishes he could pick out the flecks of gold, the whispers of honey in those solid brown eyes.  “There’s John from down the street who will be in the class.  Little Martha Bakersfield.  Paul and Lisa’s son is probably going to be there too and – “

Zayn snorts, ducking his head.  His thumb strokes the inside of Liam’s wrist, his words timed with the rhythm of his heart – _When we collide, we come together. If we don’t, we’ll always be apart_.

“’m not worried about him being alone,” Zayn says, insisting, his breath far from solid.  He doesn’t flinch when Liam drags the sketchbook from his lap, resting it to the side of Zayn before he’s tapping at Zayn’s knees, fitting his solid frame between Zayn’s legs when they slide apart.

“You’re not?”

Zayn keeps his eyes low, laughing breathlessly.  He shakes his head, eyes on the rise and fall of Liam’s chest.  He fits his hand against it – _I’ll take a bruise; I know you’re worth it_ – just to feel the thick hammer of Liam’s heart.  His fingers splay over the thin black material, chewing on a smile as he breathes in with Liam.

“I know he’ll make loads of friends,” Zayn breathes out, his voice still low in timbre.

“Loads,” Liam says with a snort, hands easing up Zayn’s thighs.  “Safi’s too brilliant not to.”

Zayn nods, grinning.  Liam’s thumb catches his chin, lifts it just enough that their eyes meet under the dusting of light that the moon and candle provide.

“But will some of the kids take a piss at him?” Zayn wonders, the words more for himself than Liam.  His eyes flicker away for just a moment but Liam makes a protesting sound and, fuck, Zayn hasn’t been good at refusing Liam in years.

“He has two dads.  He looks different than some of the other kids.  He’s still struggling with some of his words and sometimes he’s really cranky if he doesn’t have a lie-in which is going to suck because, fuck, babe he can’t seem to sleep without that stupid Woody doll,” Zayn rushes out, his bottom lip trembling until his teeth catch it again.

Liam swallows, nodding again.  He’s silent, a wondrous look in his eyes just enough to anchor Zayn again.  It doesn’t keep him steady but he doesn’t feel like he’s drifting away with his own thoughts again.

The light filters through the room enough to paint silver streaks over Liam’s cheeks, rounding out his eyes.  There’s a small wrinkle to Liam’s nose when he smiles, the corners of his eyes creasing and Zayn thinks about kicking him.  What the fuck could he be happy about knowing their son might be bullied for being anything but regular?

“Zayn, it’s okay – “

“No, it’s not,” Zayn cuts in quickly, nudging the arch of his foot against Liam’s calf.  He pouts, becomes a fucking two year old just that quickly because Liam doesn’t get it.

Safi is _different_.  He’s got these eyes that are nearly purple, freckled gold and brown, sometimes a nice shade of lilac.  His skin is a milky gold and he’s _tiny_.  He’s skinny, lean if you look closely, and yeah he can play football but he’s not very good at any other sport.  And he likes Disney films, not any of the cartoons Zayn’s certain all the other kids watch.  He hates regular food, prefers something spicy or curry or anything Zayn’s mum makes because it’s the kind of stuff Zayn loved as a kid.  His accent is a little thicker when he’s sad and Doniya has been teaching him a few words in Urdu that he uses instead of the words he’s supposed to use.  Waliyha makes him listen to classic blues songs because she’s kind of out there in the best possible way and Safaa teaches him how to jump rope and play hopscotch rather than all of the boyish games he should know.

Zayn shakes a little when Liam’s fingers curl around his chin, dragging over his stubble, the cool press of his ring on Zayn’s skin.  He breathes in Liam’s smile – _When you hit me, hit me hard_ – and it unnerves him.

“Zayn,” Liam whispers, inching up on his toes.  Zayn curls his fingers around Liam’s waist, steadying him and he leans in with Liam, foreheads touching.  “Safi will do just fine.”

“You don’t know that,” Zayn mumbles, still chewing at his lip, never moving in far enough to kiss Liam.  But he wants to.

“I do know,” Liam argues kindly, their noses brushing.  “He’s perfect.  Kids, adults, _the world_ loves him.  He’s your son.”

“Yours too.”

There’s a beat – _Sitting in a wishing hole. Hoping it stays dry_ – and Zayn feels the silence rake against his skin.  Liam’s biting at his own lip now, eyes focused on Zayn’s mouth.  There’s a crack in his expression, little pieces falling away.

He hates this chat, the one where Liam reminds him that as much as he loves Safi, Zayn’s still his father legally.  Liam loves Safi, dearly, but he has no legal rights.  No, he’s just the man who helped Zayn raise that beautiful, incredibly happy boy and Zayn hates it.  He fucking hates this discussion.

“He’s mine,” Liam says slowly, his voice sluggish, and Zayn wants to believe the words but they don’t fit against Liam’s lips like they should.

“He _is_.”

“I know.”

Zayn sighs, considers pulling back but he doesn’t.  He crosses those few breaths of space, lips secure against Liam’s.  His eyes stay open, wait for Liam’s hard expression to soften, delicate brushes of their lips that drag out a moan from Liam.  He loves the taste of it – _Feet cast in solid stone_ – wants it more than he wants anything else.  It’s just gentle enough, Zayn pressing down a little firmer to remind Liam, that it won’t bruise but it’ll say what Zayn can’t find the words to.

“I could call her again.  Try to track her down,” Zayn mumbles against Liam’s lips.  There’s something salty and sticky sweet lingering there and Zayn doesn’t want to know what.  He just wants to taste it.

Liam giggles when Zayn’s tongue swipes over his lips, drawing back just a little but their foreheads are still pressed together.

“No.”

“But Liam – “

“’s okay,” Liam insists, his palm soft and smooth over Zayn’s cheek.  “She’ll come back one day.  We’ll work things out then.”

Zayn’s eyes slide shut – _But you said love was letting us go against what?_ – and he runs his tongue over his own lips.  It’s been nearly a year since his last chat with Perrie, a brief one about her music career, her traveling the States now, the way she’s fallen into this life of happiness without Zayn and Safi.  It didn’t turn unkind until she refused to ask about Safi and, then, Zayn couldn’t help it.  It’s not that he minds – the way she doesn’t even call on his birthday anymore because Zayn imagines it’s rough for her to let go of her only child, to not be a solid piece of his life for his own good – but it sort of irritates him sometimes because he knows Safi wants to know why all the other kids have a mum.  Why the bruises from skateboarding, the scratches from trying to climb a tree aren’t kissed better by a mum rather than Zayn or Liam.  Maybe Safi wants to know why his eyes are like that rather than a gold-brown like Zayn’s or why his hair is the color it is.  Maybe Safi wants to know why Zayn doesn’t smell like flowers and something sweet like Perrie did when Safi was an infant.

Fuck, maybe Safi just wants to know why he never had a mum or can’t remember the way she sung to him when he was upset.

His teeth nibble at his lip, Liam still pressing so close that Zayn feels warm and safe.  There’s a soft kiss against his lips, one that lingers at the corner of his mouth.  A thumb over his cheekbone, another hand working gentle touches into Zayn’s thigh.

“Stop thinking about it,” Liam demands but it comes out calm, cautious, sweet.

Zayn nods, tries to but he can’t with them this close.  Liam noses his chin, bites at his neck until Zayn feels the print left behind.  He snickers, pushing off that silly snapback until it clacks against the tiles and he can drag his fingers through Liam’s thick, thick hair.

Part of him wishes Perrie would come back just for a brief moment.  Just to remind him that they both made the right choice in not letting this work.  Just to hold Safi and tell him this is for the better, this life with Zayn and Liam.  That little part that knows Liam can’t adopt Safi without both Zayn and Perrie’s written approval.  That little absent piece that misses her smile when Safi laughs and the look in her eyes when Zayn does something right in life.

He wants that look when the day comes that he takes those vows and promises to marry Liam, through life and death.

“Think we would’ve been mates in school?” Liam asks, his thumb brushing over the tip of Zayn’s nose.

Zayn nods, breathes out, “The best.”

Liam snorts lowly, his face bunching up a little and Zayn can only see it through his long lashes.

“Lou would’ve been jealous.”

“Fuck it all, he would’ve been jealous if I was best mates with a rock,” Zayn sighs out, his mouth curbing into a small smile.

“I don’t know how I would’ve felt about your obsession with Power Rangers,” Liam says delicately but there’s a grin in his voice.

“I’d let you be the blue one,” Zayn huffs out, trying to sound even and less contemplative.

“Hold my hand under the table during lunch?”

“Kiss you stupid on the jungle gym,” Zayn whispers, eyes closing and he imagines it.  He imagines the red hue to those round cheeks, the way those brown eyes would probably be much larger and a little worried after Zayn pressed his slimmer lips over Liam’s chapped ones.  He wonders if Liam would kiss him back, all sloppy and wet because Liam was probably a shit kisser back then.  He was too.

“You want to sit with him the first day in class, don’t you?” Liam asks, his voice all teasing and smiley.

Zayn blinks up, fumbling with a grin when Liam’s eyes look bright and unaffected by Zayn’s moodiness.

Fuck, he loves this boy.

“Maybe,” Zayn mutters, reaching out for another kiss.  It’s quick, broken up with laughter and their noses scrunch, eyes lit afire.

“You can’t you donut.”

“I can.”

Liam rolls his eyes, fingers still finding little pieces of Zayn’s face to stroke.  Zayn’s busy trapping his fingers in Liam’s hair and they stay quiet for a moment.  Just a breath, a dopey look on Liam’s face while Zayn schools his into something kind, considering.

“Come to bed,” Liam insists, his voice still warm and full like the stars in the sky.

Zayn smirks, shaking his head.  “I really wanna finish this drawing.”  Zayn taps at the page, sighing because he still needs all the right colors to fill in the shapes of Safi’s face, the way the grass swayed back and forth in the breeze.

“Come to bed, babe,” Liam whines, dragging the rough of his stubble along Zayn’s cheek.  It tickles, scratches, and Zayn trembles out a moan when he feels the curve of Liam’s cock through his basketball shorts pressing against his knee.

“Horny?”

“Fuck,” Liam gasps when Zayn’s knee nudges up just a little, firm against the shaft that’s no longer neatly concealed in the fabric.  “Just let me wank you off.  Let me eat you out.”

Zayn gasps, biting down on a smile when Liam’s hand cups his crotch, everything filling out and feeling plump against his trousers.

“You daft fuck.  There are more important things than sex,” Zayn says, his voice hollow and even he doesn’t believe himself but he’s not going for conviction here.  He’s hoping for distraction – _Our future is for many of horror_ – while his fingers play tic-tac-toe over Liam’s neck, down over his collarbone.

“Name seven.”

 _I can’t name two_ , Zayn thinks but he laughs instead.  He shivers against the feel of Liam’s lips, his fucking teeth against the hollow of Zayn’s throat.  A swift tongue that wets a mark Liam left the other day, the purple and burgundy fading into something bright pink with speckles of ruby.

“Making sure Safi’s lunch is packed for tomorrow.”

“Done.”

“Setting out his clothes,” Zayn moans, fingers curling into Liam’s shirt when Liam’s hands scoop beneath him, drag him further down the counter until he’s barely sitting on it.

“Both sets already by his bed.  The ones we agreed on and that silly outfit Lou bought that Safi’s begging to wear.”

“Gonna bribe him with peanut butter and banana sandwiches in the morning?” Zayn wonders, his nose rubbing over Liam’s forehead while Liam dances kisses back up Zayn’s neck, against his chin.

Liam hums, grinning over Zayn’s skin.  “A marathon of all three _Toy Story_ films when he gets home.”

Zayn sputters a laugh, his foot kicking back against the cupboards again when Liam gropes him through his trousers, thick spots of wetness left behind until the heel of Liam’s palm presses against Zayn’s balls and then fuck – he doesn’t even want to make it to the bedroom now.

He cups Liam’s face, smirking while looking into those dark eyes, his pupils blown wide, his mouth curving into something sinful.  He traces solid kisses over Liam’s dry lips, rubbing his tongue over Liam’s teeth, dull nails pressing at Liam’s cheeks when Liam gathers his strength and lifts Zayn from the counter.

“Wanna fuck you,” Zayn says against Liam’s mouth, breathless and ready.

Liam smiles, something foolishly star-bright and dreamy.  It’s Christmas morning and a new fire truck is waiting beneath the tree for him and Zayn kind of hates how it turns his stomach, makes him want to cuddle Liam instead of fucking Liam breathless.

“He’s going to be just fine,” Liam whispers, lowering Zayn’s bare feet to the cold floor and they’re kissing with the counter pressing sharply into the small of Zayn’s back.

Zayn nods, never parts their lips, easing his tongue in.  Fingers work their way down his back, lift his shirt, push into his skin.

“He’s lucky to have two fathers,” Liam adds, nosing Zayn’s cheek, hips pressed hard together.  “And he’s incredible to look at.  Girls will fall in love with him, probably a few boys too.  He’s a charmer like his Uncle Harry.”

 _Like you_ , Zayn thinks, eyes drifting shut with another kiss.  It’s chaste but it still bruises his heart, marking him and he feels pathetic.  A dirty angel beneath the silver clouds of a better place.

“One day,” Zayn gasps out, dragging down Liam’s shorts, letting them pool around his ankles and those thick, stupid socks Liam refuses to take off.

“One day.”

And it’s a room lit by a candle, the moon, and echoed silence.  The words die off in favor of soft moans that won’t wake Safi but will spur them on to other things.

It’s later when they’re in bed that Zayn runs his tongue over his lips.  He can still taste Liam’s come there, sticky and thick, his lips shiny in the dark.  The shadows cast long lines along the walls, over their duvet and across Liam’s shoulder.  His fingers are still sticky, glossy from the lube he used to open Liam up while he went down on him.  He can still smell Liam’s musky scent across his face, loves the way his nose drags over Liam’s bare shoulder with his arms folded around Liam’s midsection.  He’s spooned up behind Liam, pulling that muscular frame against his own wiry one, tangling their legs beneath the duvet and sheets.  Their clothes are probably still piled in the kitchen, the wavering scent of sex and sweaty bodies on the living room floor.  He’ll make Liam wake up extra early to do something about that while he lingers lazily in the bed, watching the ceiling, waiting for the sun to leave the room a glowing orange and gold.

Liam’s breathing quietly, evenly, his head buried in a pillow and he looks incredible.  His hair is tangled in knots, his brow wrinkled, his cheeks soft.  There’s still a sheen of sweat over his sun-kissed skin and his tattoos are a shadowy collage of wonder over his arms.  Zayn can see the scruff getting thicker, nuzzles his nose to Liam’s neck until Liam coos in his sleep, pressing backward until his arse is firm against Zayn’s bare crotch.  Zayn hums against Liam’s skin, watches him with heavy eyes.  He feels the tremble in Liam’s thighs – it reminds him of how they shook when Zayn took Liam deep in his throat with two fingers buried in Liam, rubbing at that spot that had Liam nearly coming down Zayn’s throat before Liam pushed Zayn back, swallowed him while Zayn reached across his back to fuck Liam with his fingers some more – and he can’t help the way the smile folds over his lips.

He can see the sketch still sitting beneath the soft glow of a lit candle in the kitchen.  He smirks, knows he wants to beg Liam to drag him into the city in the morning to stop by the art supply store while Liam rifles through the book store for new comics.  He wants to sit at the breakfast table with Liam across from him, finishing up that picture of Safi, maybe starting on a new one of Liam that’ll be just for him.  Maybe he can capture the curve of Liam’s jaw, the slope of his nose, the way his hair looks fucked and still amazing after a long night of sleep.  He wants to get the little wrinkles near his eyes when he really, really smiles.  He can piece together a small Superman emblem on Liam’s skin – he knows they’ve talked about getting more ink, maybe a Green Lantern one somewhere on the inside of Liam’s wrist while Zayn gets a Batman one somewhere on his chest – and it eases him into a comfortable state.

“One day,” Zayn whispers against Liam’s sleep-soaked skin and he hears Liam mumble something back about needing sleep, having to get up early for Safi.

He grins, presses his face into the crook of Liam’s neck and, for once, he knows he’s keeping Liam safe.  He’s that barrier between Liam and his thoughts.  And, one day, he’ll give Liam every little thing he wants… just like Liam has given Zayn without even trying.

**

September dies off like the last days of summer did just before Liam’s birthday.  It’s filled with fond memories – the party Louis threw for Liam in their backyard in the beginning of September because Liam was away on business on his birthday is filled with colorful Chinese lanterns, torches Harry shoved into the ground to offer up more dancing light, Niall bringing out a big cake with Batman and Green Lantern holding hands and Zayn tried not to smile at the stupidity of it all.  Safi smeared cake over Liam’s mouth, sticky kisses under the tree while Safaa, Waliyha, Louis, Harry, and Safi played hide-and-go-seek against the pale purple sky that’s only lit by the orange of the sun breaking off dull rays.  Liam’s parents brought gifts – more stuff for the wedding really, the house too – and Safi spent half of the birthday song in Liam’s lap, singing even louder than Louis and Zayn wonders for hours afterwards if they were just trying to outdo each other or if it was genuine because, really, they both adored Liam more than any words could say.  Eleanor spent half of the party chatting with Doniya about dresses, floral arrangements, their guys – Doniya’s dating some business guy who’s fresh out of University with a degree and a giant heart on display just for his sister – while Harry lounges in a chair teaching Safi how to play Tetris on his mobile.  Liam whispered into Waliyha’s ear, arms strewn around her waist like the perfect couple for a prom picture and Nicola called to wish Liam a happy birthday, spending most of the time talking to Zayn about her next visit, how much she misses him.  He feels completely in love with Liam’s family and, fuck, that feels a bit out of place in his life, yeah?

Safi’s adjusted to school quicker than Zayn was ready for – nearly begging Zayn every morning, just after six, to get up even though Zayn doesn’t drop Safi off at his school until just a little after eight, all the other school kids crowded around the doors with backpacks, stuffed animals, brand new trainers and glittery bows in the girls’ hair.  Safi’s always anxious come Fridays, nearly tearing his seatbelt off to climb out the backseat and Zayn tries not to get misty-eyed at the way Safi takes care of himself without much help from Zayn, sliding on his backpack and running up to little Tommy Harris, who looks a lot like Niall with his bursting blue eyes, faint freckles over his cheeks and nose and the kind of goofy smile that only a parent could love.  They’re best mates after the first day when Safi shares half the sandwich Liam packed for him with Tommy and Tommy’s a little loud, obnoxious with everyone but Safi – Zayn smiles at that because, yeah, it reminds him of Louis and himself loads – and they seem to know each other’s jokes before they even tell them.

The days are just a glow of a yellow sun, the clouds frosted white, and the chill in the air feels perfect when Zayn’s sitting bare foot in the backyard, a notebook of his latest scribbling in his lap with his head cocked back.  The leaves are a burnt red, some a faded gold, others dancing off against the sharp grass in a heap of Halloween orange and rusted brown.  They dance up in the air, kicking to their own melody, rustling against the ground and painting the yard a pretty kaleidoscope of autumn beauty.  He wrestles with ideas while they crinkle against each other, trying to find something to write about – he’s finished that drawing of Safi, smirking when Liam frames it and hangs it up in their room rather than on display against the fridge because, “Safi might get jealous of his baba’s talent.” – but everything is wedding, wedding, and finding his place in it all.

Liam skips work some days to cuddle up to him in that small chair in the backyard, strong arms crowding him into a miniature ball that Zayn craves.  They sit in silence – the kind that doesn’t feel awkward but warming – and Liam hums while Zayn scribbles out a few notes.  The rough of Liam’s stubble runs against his neck, over his cheek, fingers tapping out the sound of Zayn’s heart against Zayn’s wrist.  Liam’s feet are cold on top of Zayn’s, the soft material of Liam’s joggers a nice contrast to Zayn’s ripped up jeans.  The backbeat of Liam’s breathing – inhale, deep exhale, sharp intake of breath when Zayn turns his head a little to kiss at Liam’s cheek – plays out the soundtrack to something beautiful and Zayn finds his inspiration in the way Liam’s arms look coiled around him.

Harry covers the store on those days, Niall scoring a job at that University radio station Harry’s been making it big at to help out and Liam doesn’t even bother to look at his phone even though it buzzes in the chair with them every five minutes.  He merely drags lazy kisses over Zayn’s neck, pulling the collar of Zayn’s Henley aside to lick at Zayn’s collarbone, the gold skin hiding beneath until Zayn’s cozy and needing more than just dainty kisses over his body.

“Lou wants to know what we’re going to do,” Zayn mumbles one breezy afternoon, their bodies cloaked by an old comforter Ruth bought them from a bargain sale because it looked comfortable and _“so much like my little bro.”_

“About what?”  Liam’s words are caught between Zayn’s shoulder and neck, his nose brushing over skin that feels sensitive to Liam’s touch.

Zayn sighs languidly, feels the pulse of the love bite Liam left against his neck the night before.  Fuck, he was still sore but he’d give the world to have Liam pound into him like that again, all erratic thrusts and Zayn’s name stamped on Liam’s lips.  His toes curl at the idea, Liam’s thick socks running over his ankle.

“Last name,” Zayn says fleetingly, watching the sun crease the blue sky a sharp azure color.  He wants to paint it against a new canvas, maybe the one he has sitting in Safi’s room for their own little project he’s been plotting for Liam.

Liam quirks an eyebrow, another kiss just below Zayn’s jaw.

“Does he still wants us to change it to Tomlinson?”

Zayn snorts, shaking his head.  “Harry says that’s not fair.  He gets dibs on all of the Tomlinson clan.”

“Idiot,” Liam giggles, dragging his nose over Zayn’s cheek.  Zayn knows he misses the scruff, the way it bit at Liam’s lips but, fuck, it was irritating him and he knows it’ll grow back in a few days, maybe quicker.

“I don’t mind having your last name.”

“Does it have to be a big deal?” Liam asks, his teeth knocking against the sharp edge of Zayn’s jaw.

 _Yes_ , Zayn thinks but his mouth curls around a “No.”

Liam nods, smiling over that bruise his mouth left behind.  “Liar.”

“Fuck off,” Zayn grumbles, pressing further into Liam until his shoulders are swallowed by Liam’s arms.

“Dick.”

“Again, _fuck off_ ,” Zayn says but it comes out as a laugh when Liam’s fingers tickle over his sides.  He does his best to disguise it all with a cough but Liam’s not buying into it and, really, he doesn’t think he cares enough to hide it.

“Mum would love if it you were a Payne,” Liam whispers, smiling, “but I don’t think me dad cares either way.  He just wants you and Saf to be a part of the family.”

Zayn thinks they already are, something he never imagined would happen.  Liam’s parents love Safi, have since the first time they met him, but Safi’s not exactly Liam’s blood.  He’s Liam’s heart but not a natural piece of him.  Zayn wants someone to explain _natural_ to him one day because there’s no denying the connection Liam and Safi share.  They’re family.  Liam’s parents are Safi’s grandparents.  Fuck the world, he’s in love with the way Liam’s dad sometimes slips up and calls Zayn “son” like Zayn’s always been this little star in the galaxy that was Liam’s life, directing him all the way through the massive amounts of space and time.

“Malik’s not a bad last name,” Zayn says, his head falling back to rest on Liam’s shoulder.  He closes his notebook – he’ll finish whatever he’s working on later when Liam’s crashing on the couch with Safi kipping beside him, two angels framed by the droop of the falling sun – and bites down on his lip, letting Liam link their fingers in Zayn’s lap.

“Malik,” Liam says slowly, testing it.  “Not so bad.”

Zayn snickers, head shaking, fingers tightening around Liam’s.  “We could change it to Smith.”

“You’re not a Smith,” Liam tells him, a quirked up smirk on those full lips.  “More like a Blackwell.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, hates the sound of it all against the roof of his mouth.  “Peterson.”

“Malik-Payne?” Liam offers, his lips resting against the shell of Zayn’s ear.

“Payne-Malik,” Zayn suggests, eyes sliding shut.  The glow of the sun warms his skin, cools the way he feels beneath the weight of Liam’s sagging body.  Liam hums quietly – _It felt like spring time on this February morning. In a courtyard, birds were singing your praise_ – and Zayn feels himself drift beneath a sea of something intangible.

He’s breathless, Liam’s lips on his cheek, the world spinning.

Liam’s fingers ease under his shirt, sliding into the dip between Zayn’s jeans and skin, playing along the tattoo there.  It’s quiet, the rustle of leaves against the leaves too far in the distance and he thinks this is lovely.  He thinks it doesn’t really matter because he has this.

“What does your father want?” Liam asks, his voice a gentle roll against Zayn’s ear.

Zayn sighs, eyes batting open, staying small because the sun breaks evenly over the clouds and blinds him.  His brow wrinkles, Liam’s arms going tighter around him – _I’m still recalling things you said to make me feel alright. I carried them with me today_ – and he buries his worries in a breath escaping Liam’s lips.

“He wants me to be responsible,” Zayn utters, his voice a little strained and shaky.  He wants a cigarette and a cup of some Brazilian coffee from that little shop Louis used to get his daily fix from years ago.  He sighs, defeated, before adding, “He wants me to marry the mother of my son.  Sometimes, he wants me to find a better job.  He doesn’t want to feel disgraced because his son didn’t do ‘the right thing.’”

Liam nods and Zayn’s never understood how Liam just _accepted_ Yasser the way he does.  Never a complaint, never a hurt expression though he’s heard from Harry about a time or two when Liam got choked up discussing it.  He’s vowed not to speak to his baba for weeks after those times though that doesn’t last long because, honestly, Yasser is in love with Safi.  He cradles Safi like he’s a dripping piece of the sun that may dry up and fade away.  Zayn can’t escape how proud that makes him.

“There’s times where he talks about you without me saying anything,” Zayn whispers, his words adrift on a sweep of wind that kicks at the almost barren tree limbs and plays a wicked game of chase against the bushes.  He feels Liam stretch around him, legs bracketing Zayn’s hips.

“He likes you, loads,” Zayn adds, blinking downward to look at their hands.  Rings curl around their fingers, a gentle reminder – _As I lay me down to sleep, this I pray that you will hold me dear, though I’m far away. I’ll whisper your name into the sky and I will wake up happy._   He smiles, the chill pushing at that thick comforter, Liam’s lips on his skin again.  “He loves when you come by and watch Manchester United with him.  He’s impressed at how much Waliyha loves you because, even though he won’t admit it, we all know Wali is his favorite.”

Zayn doesn’t sound bitter, he knows it.  In fact, he grins at that because Waliyha was probably everyone’s favorite, except his mum’s.  She doesn’t play favorites.  She loves them all equally, honestly.  She’s the kind of woman who would spend hours in the kitchen making all of their favorite dishes even though Doniya likes soup in the summer, Safaa always wants sweets, and Zayn has to have a large helping of her Shepherd’s Pie to be content.

“He goes on about the way you help me mummy out and how he likes having you around to talk about business, shit like that,” Zayn says with a fond smile – _I wonder why I feel so high, though I am not above the sorrow_.  He can feel the crease of Liam’s grin over his jaw, that hint of minty gum and toothpaste on Liam’s breath.

“He’s tough,” Liam admits, his voice low, deep.  “Loving, sweet like you but tough.”

Zayn nods.  He knows.  Twenty-four years of his life, he’s known.

“My mum says he’s coming around,” Zayn says softly, watching the roll of clouds take shape, playing like a circus over the now pale blue sky.  He misses the sound of Safi’s giggle in his ear, small hands playing in his hair until the sun shines again.  “Slowly, but he is.  Still not very supportive of the idea that his son is marrying a lad but… he’s _trying_.  ‘s a start, right?”

“It is,” Liam confirms, his voice still warm and caring – _Heavy-hearted ‘til you call my name_.

Liam’s fingers splay over Zayn’s stomach, his palm pressing firmly until Zayn finally breathes again.  He doesn’t know when he stopped but he knows why.  He’s not really in the mood for a rush of tears, the way his voice sounds when it’s choked and hurt.

“I want you to decide.”

“Hmm,” Liam hums, his thumb stroking over that thin trail of hair that slides beneath the waistband of Zayn’s boxer-briefs – a pair of Batman ones he stole from Liam because, fuck, they were tight and small on Liam and it made Zayn’s cock plump up every time Liam danced around the house in them.

Zayn tips his head back, taking in the way the sun bathes his features until they’re pillow-soft.  There’s a halo around his snapback, one that doesn’t really fit on Liam’s thick hair but Liam adores it so Zayn doesn’t complain.  His nose is round, a little pink from the heat of the sun, cheeks full and happy.

“Whatever you want,” Zayn says, trying not to sound breathless but he’s so in love with the way Liam looks.  He can’t help it.  “I’ll be a Payne.  Or a Smith.  Or whatever.  But it has to be _your_ choice.  You made this family complete and now you have to choose.”

It sounds sappy, some daytime television shit that he kind of hates but loves because idiots like Niall made him watch that kind of stuff while he studied and highlighted every section of his book of Literature – Niall sucked at English.  It’s heavy against his tongue and he wonders if Liam’s eyes are wet from the stiff breeze falling over them or just the notion that Zayn wants this from him.  He hopes it’s the chill in the air because he can’t really handle Liam crying.  No, he sure as fuck can’t handle things like that.

“Okay,” Liam says against his lips, Zayn barely noticing when Liam pulled in that close – _I want to meet you bare foot, barely breathing._

“Anything you want,” Zayn says after a kiss, smiling into the second one.  The rush of autumn slides in, the death of September making room for October.

“’kay,” Liam laughs back, still folding kisses over Zayn’s lips.

Zayn grins, lips parting for Liam’s tongue.  He licks his against the stiff flesh, something wetly and a bit obscene that has Liam shaking and Zayn ready to strip off this too warm duvet for a long fuck beneath the blazing sun.

“Anything but Styles,” Zayn says with another kiss and Liam’s laughing now, pulling all the way back and Zayn misses his lips a little too much.  He dives in, everything crooked and he misses his mark but Liam settles his chin to ease a kiss against Zayn’s mouth.

Liam agrees silently with long kisses, their fingers still locked, their rings scraping against one another and everything feels magical, glowing.  It’s just the gentlest of pressure – _And I will see you when the sun comes out again_ – and their lips settle into something instinctual.

He doesn’t miss Safi as much as the sun hides behind the clouds again, Liam’s lips drawing out their future against Zayn’s.

**

September shies away to make room for October and every single day on the calendar in his phone is marked with either something he has to do or something he wants to do.

Safi’s birthday is first – well, not actually because there are days filled with deadlines for his next article, afternoons spent at the banquet hall because their mums are insistent on everything being in place and all of the final details ironed out.  Doniya and Nicola fill in when Tricia and Karen have other things to take care of and, Zayn has to admit, they are just as demanding and forthright as their mums are but with a few more dirty jokes and snickers that make it much lighter for Zayn.  Liam’s there sometimes, mainly yawning and nodding along to anything they suggest while Louis is complicated, taxing, a little shit about small details like floral arrangements and where he wants the wedding party to stand – you know, typical Louis fucking Tomlinson – and it’s more of a headache some days than Zayn’s ready for but he reminds himself, Liam too, that it’s worth it.

Just a few more weeks and, really, it’s all worth it.

Safi’s birthday party feels just as big as the wedding even though it’s not.  It’s simple really – all of the neighborhood kids in the backyard under a caramel-orange sun that drops wide beams of light over the olive-shaded grass, through the almost naked trees, down across that cherrywood fence Liam put in that is decorated with those silly cutout letters: _Happy Birthday Safi_.  There’s a few picnic tables that Harry helped Liam drag in that have plastic table cloths and Waliyha’s helping Ruth pass out paper plates of cake – it’s a Buzz Lightyear one this year and Zayn notices the way Liam tries not to look hurt at it not being Batman but, really, it’s _Safi’s_ birthday, not _Liam’s_ – while Safaa leads all of the kids, including little Tommy who refuses to leave Safi’s side, through a loud game of Red Rover.

There’s balloons of pink, green, blue, perfectly tinted yellow that hang off the chairs, the sky a faded off blue like the edges of the ocean with ivory clouds taking the shape of clowns and giant elephants.  Louis hooks up his iPod to the dock and Zayn bites down on grins over pink lips when the yard fills with the sounds of Maroon 5, a little Jason Mraz and some stuff by Taylor Swift – Zayn’s never gotten over how Louis refuses to let go of his adoration for her – with a few select songs from the 80s that Harry’s no doubt downloaded on there like Debbie Gibson, Simple Minds, and the dancier tracks by David Bowie.

Eleanor finds a spot in the grass beneath a tree with Niall next to her, telling wild stories about their childhood to a few of the older children with Niall doing his best to exaggerate his accent but, really, he doesn’t have to try that hard.  Eleanor giggles into his shoulder, bright brown eyes that are still doe-like and remind Zayn of being fifteen and wasted off teenage freedom rather than this life of counting backwards toward innocence again.

Karen and Tricia get on extremely well, something Zayn’s noticed a long time ago but never really says much about.  They’re all wide smiles, crinkled eyes that are dotted with tears, trading off laughter and teasing Zayn about the pinkish blush that rules his cheeks anytime someone compliments Safi’s good manners.  They’re arm-in-arm, busying themselves with keeping the place clean, entertaining the children, and exchanging more ideas about the wedding that seem a bit off but he thinks their mums are the kind of people that work out every detail up until the last second.  They huddle around Safi before he blows out the candles, swallow Liam and Louis in a group hug and take turns ruffling Zayn’s hair while he helps to pass out seconds of cake.

Liam settles onto a bench with him, far enough from the laughter and excitement that they can merely watch without words.  Liam’s smile presses into his shoulder, the cool shift of wind dying off against the break of sun.  Their fingers are interlocked, Liam’s on top of Zayn’s, and Zayn watches the way Safi weaves through all of his mates like he’s actually hosting the party.  Harry chats with the neighbors about political bullshit and propaganda and Louis tries to play the part of “the good wife” by nodding along, chancing glances over his shoulder to make extravagant faces at Zayn that Zayn laughs at.

He lets the temperature settle around them, head tipped back on Liam’s shoulder, weaving the sound of their heartbeats with the thud of the music while Liam hums something completely different in his ear – _Glowing in the dark, I can see your heart_.  Each one of Liam’s kisses taste like chocolate icing, the sun breaking off warm lines over Liam’s face and the shattered light lifts the amber from Liam’s eyes into something much brighter, a thick honey shade that Zayn sort of loves.

Kids are slathered in frosting, grass stains on their chinos, sweat shining of their brows.  Zayn’s set up a finger paint station where some of the children bounce around with plastic water guns and barks of laughter.  Liam paints a sun and stars up Zayn’s forearm that’s not already littered with tattoos.  Zayn gives Safi whiskers, a pink nose, sharp eyes that make him look like a lion and Harry snickers at that – _“My little Simba.”_ – while Eleanor shapes out freckles and a beard for Niall to resemble something off of the Lucky Charms box.  Safi scribbles out shapes and lines over Liam and Zayn forces the shirt off of Liam to spend an hour etching out tattoos that’ll wash off in a few hours.  He paints on a thick band around Liam’s forearm, just below his elbow.  He adds an equal sign, Louis dusting on a plus sign, and Zayn takes his time while scripting _‘Liam’_ across his neck.  Liam paints a _‘Z’_ and a _‘M’_ on the inside of each of his wrists while Zayn strokes out a careful heart that he outlines with a Sharpie, his tongue pressing to the back of his teeth with a smile.  Everything Liam adds to his body is smudged by little touches, soft kisses until their clothes are stained in paint and Louis’ looking on them cautiously like he can’t believe their snogging in front of a bunch of five and six year olds.

Safi’s knackered long before all of his guests leave and Tommy falls asleep on the living room floor with a bowl of popcorn and _the Incredibles_ playing on mute shining an outline of blue over his small form.  Safi’s scrubbing paint along Zayn’s already ruined jeans on the couch, moving aimlessly in his sleep and Zayn can feel the catch of Liam’s scruff along his bare shoulder long before he feels the rush of his dry-paint-covered fingers roaming over his chest and stomach.

“Great day,” Liam mutters, his voice a bit dragging, sleep-worn.

Zayn hums his approval, stroking fingers lazily over Safi’s head.  Reds, greens, flaked up yellow stick to his skin from Liam’s touches and he doesn’t mind at all.

“Love you,” Liam adds like it’s needed but it’s really not.  Zayn can feel it in the heartbeat hammering from Liam’s chest against the wide expanse of Zayn’s back.

“You’re not planning some daftly romantic gesture at the wedding, right?  No serenading me or mushy vows that’ll have me mum crying for hours,” Zayn warns amusedly, tapping his fingers over the bones in Liam’s wrist.

Liam snickers into the crook of his neck, nosing over naked skin.  Zayn hisses with the feel of Liam’s erection digging into the small of his back and, fuck, they could ditch off the kids for a little while and fuck in the shower.  Something quick, dirtier than their skin is already, and Zayn wants to bawl up under the sheets with his legs curled around Liam’s.

“Saf and I are going to do a little dance number.  A song too,” Liam says teasingly, his words muffled against the slickness of Zayn’s skin.  He hums even quieter now – _Me and you and you and me. No matter how they toss the dice, it had to be_ – while gliding the tips of his fingers over the planes of Zayn’s chest, still wet paint smudging thin lines over Zayn’s skin.

“Don’t.”

“A poem?  Something by Shakespeare or Tennyson?” Liam offers feebly, grinning.

Zayn rolls his eyes, catching Liam’s fingers, twining them with his own.  “You don’t know Literature.”

“You don’t know _romance_ ,” Liam argues softly, licking a long stripe across Zayn’s cheek.

“You’re not romantic,” Zayn chews out, jokingly but he still hears the fawned hitch in Liam’s breath, the way his chest lifts and falls defiantly.

“’m very romantic.”

“You’re daft.”

“You love me though,” Liam whispers, the hush of a snore falling from Safi’s mouth stirring them just a little.

“I do,” Zayn admits feely, eyes sliding shut.  “You and Saf.”

“Yeah, Safi too,” Liam agrees, his voice softer but more confident.  He’s etching out little circles, a map of his adoration over Zayn’s forearm and Zayn feels so safe under those fingertips.  He feels secure, wadding in this sea of love without a fear of drowning.

It’s not a feeling he comes by so naturally, not without Liam.

“We’re really doing this,” Liam says, ducking his head a little to hide the excitement that betrays his voice.

Zayn chuckles, blinking his eyes shut.  “We are.”

“Harry and Louis are gonna have a kid,” Liam adds, his voice just as small and childlike like the wonder is being overshadowed by something else.

“They are.”

“It’s kind of mental, yeah?” Liam asks, his voice sliding quiet when Safi shifts in Zayn’s lap and Tommy kicks at the duvet in his sleep.

“Maddening,” Zayn agrees, the darkness of the room fighting bravely against the sharp colors blinking off the telly.

He lets the quiet sink in and Liam doesn’t really say much else.  His fingers, sticky with dried paint, brush over the nape of Zayn’s neck.  He tilts his head a little, smiling beyond the shadows as Liam drapes kisses along the side, running vertical before sliding horizontal and Safi yawns in his lap.  He watches Safi’s lashes curl against his cheek, flutter against the colors behind his eyelids.  Tiny fingers curl into balled up fists and Zayn wonders what Safi’s dreaming about.

Just a few more kisses, Zayn turning his head to catch them on the corner of his mouth and they’re settling in for a quick kip with the evening turning dark and the night opening up for the moon.

**

Zayn likes the feel of rain against his skin.  Honestly, he doesn’t mind how cold it feels, the way his skin shivers and his bones ache or the damp feeling of his clothes sticking to him.  It fucks his hair, sticks his usually fanned out lashes together and it tastes awful but he keeps swiping his tongue over his lips to keep them from getting dry.  He doesn’t mind the way the clouds are silver and charcoal, the rumble of something wicked like dishes clashing together in the distance.  The heavens open up just enough to litter the streets in a glittery shine that reminds him of days in London, chasing Safi toward the nearest bakery for sticky treats and smiles.  His socks tend to make an awful noise when he walks and he can’t help the way he sneezes, sniffles like it’s too fucking chilly to rain in October but it’s just a little reminder that this life outside of the city is always rain, warmth under thin sheets, and _SafiLiam_.  Just Safi and Liam.

Neither of them are there when he shuffles inside the house, the keys jamming in the door – he’s begged Liam to replace it but Liam’s fond of every little old piece of this house, just the way Liam’s fond of everything old and homey – and the thunder feels closer but it just might be the beat of his heart when he stumbles slick and wet into the living room.  He tried to ignore the sleek black car that was sitting in the car park, the one next to his mum’s SUV and maybe it belonged to the wedding planner or a friend of hers but it’s quite obvious it doesn’t.  It’s too fancy, upscale with tinted windows, and the driver was beating on the steering wheel to something old like Guns ‘n Roses while looking completely bored with the way the rain was streaking the windows.

The car belongs to Perrie.

She doesn’t look much different from the years that have past – he’s seen her more than a few times on the telly trying to promote her group and looking auspicious with her grunge-meets-upper London style while sounding so much more mature than he remembers – and he thinks he feels the stutter of his heart rather than the sharp breath that leaves his throat.  Her once faded pink and blonde hair is platinum, almost white with dark roots.  Her lips are painted s darker shade than the one she used to wear – long gone is the gloss, bubblegum pink mouth, soft cheeks – but those blue eyes are still bright, sharp, a bit judging yet still large and wondrous.  Her hair is pulled up into a tight ponytail, the definition in her cheeks highlighted by muted blush and her black fingernails drag over the rim of her cup – _Zayn’s cup_ , the one he drinks coffee from – while Tricia dotes over her for a moment, smiling and being the ever polite mum she’s always been.

There’s a smile streaking Perrie’s lips, long lashes false and too cluttered to frame her eyes naturally.  She arches an eyebrow at him, still laughing through something Zayn’s mum said with her legs crossed and her posture straight.  She shakes her head while looking him over – she never really approved of the way he dressed or the tattoos or him being anything other than that little twit from Bradford with the thick accent and scrummy trainers on his feet – before Tricia glances up, smiling tightly.

“I’ll go finish the dishes,” Tricia says, jerking her head toward the kitchen and she’s not even trying to hide her uncertainty.  “Liam called.  Said he and Safi should be back soon.”

Zayn catches the way Perrie flinches just a little, eyes going small while Tricia’s grin falls.  She clears her throat, dusting her hands on her apron before offering to take Perrie’s cup, gentle words hidden beneath a breath as she pats Perrie’s shoulder out of instinct.  His mum always liked Perrie, albeit the Perrie before Safi came along.  The Perrie that fell in love with Zayn before he knew the definition.  He never loved her, not like _that_.  She was the Éponine in his story and, honestly, he regrets her ever having to play that role.

He blames the raindrops still sticking to his lashes for the way he looks at her – ready to run, considering, a bit bitter – when he finds a seat on the couch.  She turns a little toward him, smiling widely, hands resting in her lap.  She’s in Liam’s spot and he wants to tell her to get up, get the fuck out, but he’s not angry.  It’s just that… he’s not ready for this.

He’s not ready for her to come back and claim a spot in his life, Safi’s life that she’s long abandoned.

“How are you?” she asks first, shifting a little, looking slightly uncomfortable.

He swallows, fingers pushing back the fringe of his hair.  He can’t help the way he stares at her – she’s different.  Foreign.

“You’re here.”

Perrie snorts, nodding.  Her smile doesn’t break though her eyes do, averting from his like it’s weighing down on her.  Her lips quirk a little, the rain thudding against the roof, the world outside smaller than the tension between them.

“You haven’t called,” Zayn says stiffly, curling his fingers to fist in his lap.  His knuckles run over the dampness of his jeans.  He toes off his shoes, tries to get comfortable but he knows that’s impossible with her here.

“Thought about it,” Perrie admits, looking up through those long fake lashes.  There’s a beat before those blue eyes go wide, unsettled.  “Been busy.”

 _Too busy for your son_ , Zayn thinks, mustering up enough nerve to offer her a contempt smile.

“I bet,” Zayn says with a hiss, leaning back.

“Don’t be an arse,” Perrie snaps and there she is.  There’s the seventeen year old girl who gave birth to Safi.  The eighteen year old who hated Zayn for never returning her feelings.  The nineteen year old who left them behind to give Safi a better life.

Zayn’s lips curl, holding in words he longs to say.  He frowns, lashes flicking off rain before he whispers, “’m sorry.”

Perrie shakes her head, fingers tapping out a melody on her knee before she sighs.  “Don’t be.  I deserve it.”

“How are things?”

Perrie shrugs, her chin tucking downward.  “Brilliant.  Lonely.  Loads of things you’ll never understand.”

“’m sure I would,” Zayn argues, his voice still hovering somewhere between angry and sad.  He sniffles, the quiet scent of her flowery perfume colliding with the cinnamon candle his mum is burning in the kitchen.

“Yeah, you probably would,” Perrie agrees with a soft laugh, blinking at him before a smile folds over her dark lips.  She looks tired, flaking off that last bit of energy from touring, from being this glamorous singer who no longer carries pacifiers around in her purse and would rather wear a comfortable pair of jeans rather than tight dresses and too tall heels.

“The girls?” Zayn asks out of respect though he doesn’t really miss Jesy or Leigh-Anne; Jade, maybe.

“Smashing,” Perrie replies, a gentle sigh following.  “They ask about you loads.  Safi too.”

He wants to ask her what her response to that is but there’s something broken, shattered in her expression at the mention of their son.  She still hasn’t forgiven herself, he can tell.  He hears it in her voice sometimes, whenever she takes ten minutes out of her schedule to call and list off how great things really are.  It’s a nice camouflage for something much darker and he can see it all now.

There’s a soft chill to the room, his gold-brown eyes running over her too blue ones and it feels nothing like when they were stupid kids with an infant to take care of.  Everything feels… unrepairable like it did then, but more so.  It’s loud and he shakes with the way she uncrosses and then re-crosses her legs like she’s not sure what else to do.

“Why?” he gets out, his thumb grazing over his bottom lip.  He chews at his nail, restless.  “Why now?”

She smirks, pretending to fix her hair but all of the strands are still in place.  She’s perfect – perfectly put together.  Well, except her heart.

“Heard you’re getting married,” Perrie says, almost chewing out the words but she doesn’t sound sad or sarcastic.  She sounds… happy for him.

Zayn nods slowly, biting down on his lip rather than the tip of his thumb.  “In a week.”

Perrie grins, settling further into the couch.  “’m glad.”

“You are?”

She laughs, breathy and loud.  Her nose wrinkles, head tipping back, and she sounds genuinely amused.

“Yes, Zayn.  I’ve always liked Liam, you know that,” Perrie insists against another laugh.  She beats out a rhythm on her thigh now – _Tell me where to now ‘cause the lights are up. And the covers and the gloves are off_ – with her smile sliding sideways.  “He’s wonderful.”

“He is,” Zayn agrees, lips working to hide his smile.  They don’t and his tongue presses gently against his teeth, eyes bright.  “I love him.”

“I know,” she says softly, nodding.  There’s a wave of assurance before it falls into a slightly wounded look.  “He’s always been what I… he’s just _better_ for you.”

Zayn doesn’t want to agree because he knows it’ll hurt but it’s true.  It’s the truest thing she’s said to him in a long time and he hates her for it.  Why couldn’t it always be this easy?

“You came to tell me this?” Zayn wonders, still biting at his lip until it hurts.  He doesn’t stop.  It’s keeping him calm; ready to stay rather than ready to hide away.

Perrie shakes her head, round eyes getting wider.  Her smile breaks just a little but her eyes tell him she’s okay.  She’s not here to ruin this for him.  She never was.

“Liam came to London.  He came to see me.  He begged me to come,” Perrie admits, the words coming out slowly and he thinks the world stops.  Everything blurs out for a moment, his vision hazy, and he thinks it all over.

Liam went to find her.  Liam did this.  Liam went to chat with Perrie and _oh_.  It makes sense.

She smiles, her lips tight, her cheeks pushing up just slightly – _There’s no win or lose. So go ahead, make your move. Let’s just pray that it’s good enough._ Her fingers won’t stop moving, fidgeting until she’s reaching for her purse, digging something out.

“He wasn’t pushy about it.  He just wanted to chat and, well, he’s a good lad, Zayn.  He cares for you and Saf so much and, oh God, ‘m not really sure what else,” her words die off, small tears lining that mascara-thick rim of her eyes until she has to laugh out the wetness.  She shakes her head again like it’ll stop the emotions, the tears, the way she’s falling off balance.

Zayn breathes in something shaky.  He wants to smoke.  He wants to step into the backyard, let the rain slick his skin again, and let rings of smoke hover in with the fog until all he tastes is relief.  His fingers bite at his palm and he worries his bottom lip until – _There’s a war in my heart, getting tired of fighting. When you say that you love me, it hurts like lightning_ – he can breathe again.

He _needs_ to breathe.

She shoves a few papers at him, still smiling widely until her cheeks hurt and those tiny streaks of black curl over the soft porcelain skin hidden beneath the makeup.  Her hand is shaking, the silver bracelets around her wrist clinking together and she’s crumpling the edges until she lets go.  She lets go and sighs because the tears are a bit too thick now.

He watches her swallow, dropping his eyes to look over the papers.  He’s seen them before – his signature is messy at the bottom and dated almost a year ago – but they look so new to him.  So foreign.

Perrie wipes at her eyes, laughing – _Where to now? Who knows_ – before cocking her head back.

“Safi will always be the life you and I created,” she says, choked and still trying to giggle through it all.  She waits until he looks up again, her features dropping, everything becoming misty and honest.  “But he is _Liam’s_ son.  Liam, as daft as he is for fucking falling in love with your stubborn arse, deserves to have every right to Safi.  ‘s what’s best.”

He blinks at her for a moment too long, his fingers tracing over her signature on the papers.  He can feel the imprint of the stamp from the notary, the way she still dots her I’s with hearts and the curve of her R’s has always been neat.  He wishes someone would tell him how this is supposed to feel because he’s not really sure.  Relief?  Joy?  Bittersweet?  He needs to be crowded by Niall and Louis, little reminders that this whole thing was some genius scheme started by Louis and now he’s here.

He’s here and he doesn’t really know where _here_ is anymore.

She smiles at him, a little broken, still so much like that seventeen year old the moment she first held Safi and everything goes clouds and autumn chill.  His hand finds her, fingers twining, a little something dotting her eyes through the clinging tears.  She squeezes back, nodding, trying to reassure herself as much as she’s trying to offer comfort to him.

“Thank you,” Zayn whispers, tries to when he finds his voice again.

She laughs, the sound wet and bent but she nods again.

“I didn’t do it for you, you arse,” Perrie says through the last breath of giggles and tears.  “I did it for that wee boy of ours.  I did it for Liam.  You’re still that dick who made me do all of his Calculus homework.”

Zayn snickers, something itching at his eyelids until it rests just on the edge of his lashes.  His teeth worry his lip, another squeeze from his hand to hers to remind her that she’s doing the right thing.

He hopes, one day, she’ll be able to tell herself that in a cold hotel room alone – _Someone stop the clock before the good gets lost. Before my heart has to start again._ He thinks, with another nod from her, she will.

Perrie clears her throat, straightening up a little, wiping at her eyes as their fingers part.  It’s colder than it was just minutes ago, something gushing over them like words unsaid but still waiting on the tips of their tongues.

“He makes you so happy,” Perrie remarks, tilting her head a little.

There’s a somberness just on the rim of her smile and Zayn tries to ignore it in favor of grinning at her, blinking back something wicked and unwanted from his eyes.

“Yeah,” Zayn breathes out, his tongue licking over his lips.  There’s a hint of saltiness there from a few unprotected tears – _Will I go alone or will you bring me home?_ – and his heart races a little too quickly.

Perrie smirks sideways, tugging up her purse before humming at him.  “And he’ll do the same for Saf.”

Perrie stands, Zayn following, and he thinks about hugging her.  He thinks about pressing a kiss to her cheek, pulling her in until those tears fade and all of this doesn’t feel like a final goodbye.  Because it does.  It feels like she’s never coming back now, something he’s mulled over but never really thought about actually happening.  He knew she’d always come back, she’d always find a way to make her mark in his life, in his son’s life.

Just not like this.

He grins at her when she rubs at his arm, a little move that feels like sympathy and farewell tied together by a little red string.  Her smile shifts higher, his dipping, and they just stare for a moment.  He imagines holding her in his arms, something seamless and poetic like that old Rolling Stones song about wild horses couldn’t drag you away playing in his head – it was the first slow song they danced to beneath the pale light of the moon under her bedroom window.  Her lips tremble a little when her fingers brush over the scruff on his face and there’s no going back, is there?  He’ll never love her like he loves Liam… but he’ll always love her for what she’s given him

“For Liam,” Perrie repeats but it sounds like _‘For you’_ beneath the echo of her smile and it tastes a little like regret.

He follows her toward the door, a hand on the small of her back like he’s giving her a chance to take it all back.  She carries herself like it’s one of the surest things she’s ever decided upon – even more so than that day in his flat where she told him Safi was staying and she wasn’t.  She’s laughing, going on about touring and being in the studio and all sorts of musical things when the door swings open and everything stops.

His breath, his heart, his world.  It all stops – _You see through my eyes like broken windows_.

There’s an echo of laughter from Safi and Liam, bodies dripping with rain water, feet squeaking on the hardwood.  Liam’s snapback is sitting too large on Safi’s head and Liam’s shaking off the rain from his baggy pullover when the click of Perrie’s heels dies off.  Safi’s looking up curiously, Perrie’s eyes just as wide as Liam’s and Zayn does his best to swallow but it feels like shattered glass sliding down his throat.

“Baba,” Safi drags out first, glancing gradually from Liam to Zayn before running his eyes over Perrie again.  “Who-Who is this?”

He hears the hitch in Perrie’s breathing, the way Liam probably isn’t breathing, and the thump of his heart in his ears is loud and muted at once.  His fingers drum against the small of Perrie’s back, Safi and Perrie blinking at each other for a long minute before Liam’s clearing his throat, trying to move his lips to offer up a save.

The tip in Safi’s lips like he’s on the verge of a frown makes Zayn want to swallow his discomfort and speak the truth.  He just wants to tell Safi, leave it all on the floor because, fuck, he needs to know.

“Hi sunshine,” Perrie says a little too quickly, reaching out to adjust the snapback on Safi’s head but it just flops backwards, nearly sliding off.  She’s giggling, the sound forced but she’s trying.  “I’m Auntie Perrie.”

“Aunt Per… Per..”

“Perr works just fine, love,” Perrie insists, still holding onto a tight grin.  “Aunt Perr.  Or Auntie Pez.”

Safi nods slowly, small teeth finding his protruding bottom lip.  “Okay.”

He’s not sure if it’s his sigh or Perrie’s that filters through the room but Liam’s the one blinking now, lips inching into a frown with his arms folded over his chest like he only halfway approves.  He’s chewing on his bottom lip a little rougher than Safi is, shuffling wet trainers over the hardwood and Zayn finds just enough nerve to start breathing again.  It’s hard, watching Liam’s eyes focus and unfocus so quickly but they don’t say anything.

“I should go,” Perrie says over her shoulder, giving another long look at Safi.  Something twitches against her lips and he thinks, just almost, she’ll give in and tell him.

She doesn’t.

Perrie pats Safi’s shoulder, a small pinch to his cheek that he ruffles and blushes under before she’s giggling.  She’s taking in a deep breath, eyes shutting to hold in what’s left of the tears before her heels grind against the floor.  She leans in, stepping up on the front of her shoes to press a small kiss to Liam’s cheek.  Liam’s hand finds the dip in her back, the same spot Zayn’s had just been.

“He’s your son now,” she whispers, the sound just loud enough that Zayn can hear it over the rumble of thunder harkening closer.

“Thank you,” Liam says back, his throat constricting on the words and his eyes are closed.  His brow is wrinkled and Zayn pulls Safi to him, rubbing at his neck just to stop himself from losing it.

Perrie nods, another petite giggle escaping her lips before she’s waving at Safi over her shoulder.  He waves back, still a little uncertain and the silence that follows her exit is cloudy, too thick.

“Hungry Saf?” Tricia asks from the doorway of the living area, smiling when Safi scurries around Zayn’s legs to run up to her.  She laughs, hearty and proud, and Zayn doesn’t bother to look back to watch her carry him off to the kitchen.  He watches Liam, closed eyes, shallow breathing.  He eyes Liam until the air around them isn’t so thin and dead.

Somewhere between another roll of thunder, the rain sliding down the windowpane, and Safi laughing in the kitchen while Tricia fixes him a small plate of food, Zayn’s clinging to Liam.  The sky is a dark gray and Zayn’s fingers are learning the definition of Liam’s ribs, the curve of his abdomen while Liam buries his face between Zayn’s neck and shoulder.  He’s counting out each one of Liam’s breaths in the foyer, words still useless but all of these little touches – Liam’s fingers inching beneath Zayn’s shirt, their bare toes wiggling against each other, the shift of Zayn’s knee between Liam’s legs, Liam’s nose dragging over Zayn’s neck just to smell him – say enough.

A sigh passes Liam’s lips, something caught in his throat, and the house feels warm and full like this.  Teeth bite gently at Zayn’s neck, Zayn stuttering through an exhale, fingers itching for a cigarette.  Cold fingertips, still wet with rain, drizzle over his waist.  Liam breathes hard over his skin, soaking in the softness of Zayn’s body, everything a little fuzzy but wanted.

“Mine.”

Zayn grins against Liam’s hairline, all of his thoughts drifting to kiss Liam’s mouth.  He wants to kiss the words away, keep Liam quiet until Zayn can get that ghostly feeling of Perrie’s presence from his mind.  He settles for nodding from his closed in position with Liam so full around him.

“He’s yours,” Zayn whispers, his back arching a little when Liam’s fingers fit into the dimples of his back.

“You too,” Liam says, a little mumbled with his lips to Zayn’s collarbone.

Zayn snorts, pulling Liam in closer.

He wants to say he always has been.  Before this day, before four years ago, before Liam had even fully moved into Wagner’s old flat.

“Reckon you need to get out of these wet clothes so we can call up your mum and work out this silly reception stuff, yeah?” Zayn says instead, biting on his bottom lip because the little whine from Liam’s lips tells him it’s not what he wanted to hear.

He knows it but teasing Liam when he’s so vulnerable makes all of this a little less heavy for him.

Liam’s arms curl around him tightly, the air rushing from him but he doesn’t mind.

“Thank you,” Liam says softly, the words tickling the sensitive area just above Zayn’s collarbone.

“For?”

Liam smirks, shaking his head.  “One day, you’ll know.”

Zayn thinks he will but he doesn’t have the energy to find out now.  He’s too caught up in the way Liam’s fingers are playing a harmonic rhythm over his skin while his heart pats out the percussion of thoughts that run a little deeper.

“C’mon before mum kills you for dripping all over the floor,” Zayn tells him and Liam’s reluctant to pull back but their fingers crisscross and Zayn leads him down the hall toward their bedroom, a smile pressed firmly to his lips.

He prays Perrie never regrets the gift she’s laid at his feet because the grin on Liam’s lips, – the one that comes with the crinkled eyes, the tops of his ears pinkish, the pushed up cheeks, and he’s all white teeth with a small wrinkle to that silly nose – the one that takes hours and hours to chase away, is something he etches into his mind.

**

If Ant and Danny were here, they’d be wholly disappointed in him – they promised to be there the day of the wedding but something about work at the factory, putting in double shifts, girlfriends, the life and times of stoners trying to survive in the real world keeps them from coming a second before.  In fact, he thinks Niall’s a little let down too, holed up in a corner of their living room with a bowl of popcorn, two nearly finished beers, and the remote in his free hand.  He’s got one of those snapbacks fluffing down his untamed blonde hair with usually bright blue eyes looking a bit somber, let down even though his smile is as sunny as the Mediterranean during the summer months.  He tugs at his tank top – even in the colder months where the sun doesn’t rise as wistful and the chilled wind really streaks against your back, Niall finds less and less to wear – before kicking his feet up into Louis’ lap and nearly knocking the phone Louis’ typing briskly on out of his hands.

“Fucker,” Louis huffs, eyes still trained on his phone but his lips curl and his brow shifts lower.

“You love me,” Niall coos, shifting further into the cushions of the settee while scooping up some popcorn.  He wipes his greasy fingers over his acid wash jeans and Zayn wonders if Eleanor approved of his attire before letting Niall out the house.

“Like I love seared rhino,” Louis balks, his lips sliding into a snarl.

Niall hums, head tipping backward to watch an upside down Doniya waltz into the room.  “Exquisite delicacy in some countries, I hear.  We should holiday in South Africa next spring.”

“Bullocks,” Louis says with a sharp laugh, smacking at Niall’s bright white trainers.  “You’re shit at being a respectable human being.”

“Still love me,” Niall chimes and Louis grumbles out something that sounds like he does.

Louis fusses with his fringe for a moment, reaching out to pat sympathetically at Niall’s thigh when he can’t find a rerun of _Doctor Who_ or _Shameless_ to tune into before he’s rushing out a sigh and curling up on the two small space that’s already crowded with the two of them there.  He fiddles with the collar of his button down – something from Topman that feels overdressed for the occasion but that suits Louis – before training his eyes on Doniya who flutters through the room with an apron on, thick hair pulled up into a sloppy ponytail.  She’s carrying trays and trays of food from Nando’s, a few dishes their mum taught her to cook that are all spicy or sweet or wonderfully aromatic while Ruth carries in bottles of sodas and that case of German beer that they all know only Harry will feast on.

Zayn finds a seat on an arm of the couch not too far from Louis and Niall, sitting closest to Waliyha who’s stretched out across the furniture like she’s at home.  Her heart-spotted socks are pushing beneath Zayn’s legs, long, dark hair spread out over the other arm while she tweets or captures quick selfies to send her friends – probably just to update her Facebook with and Zayn’s not just a little worried that she has even more followers than Harry because how is that even possible?  Her Wonder Woman hoodie is baggy, a gift from Liam – he still swears by the belief that DC is far superior to Marvel though Zayn teases Liam about his new addiction to the _Iron Man_ films and the latest X-Men comics – that she snuggles to as much as possible.

“No Lou, you cannot beat my high score on Candy Crush,” she giggles out, peeking over Zayn to offer Louis a quirked up smile.

“Can too!”

Waliyha rolls her eyes promptly, those lips turning sideways again.  She’s unimpressed and Zayn swears this debate could last all night.

“Lou, you’re arguing with a teenager,” Niall reminds him, reaching out to nick a piece of chicken from one of the platters but Doniya’s quicker, smacking his hand away before his fingers get a firm grasp.

“Wait for the others,” she hisses but her lips are already sliding into a smile.

Niall makes a face, Louis squawking something about demolishing Waliyha before her sixteenth birthday and Zayn bites down on his knuckles to hold back a laugh.  He likes the way his world always slides backwards, wrong side up so naturally whenever all of them are around.  It doesn’t happen often enough anymore but when it does?  Smiles, little tickled laughs, his cheeks and stomach aching, the light of something brilliant when the sun has already set.

Ruth grins, sidles up next to him until she’s shoving him down into the small breath of space Waliyha’s left on the couch.  She cuddles close to him, fixing his arm around her shoulders, laughing into his neck when Louis and Waliyha start up a very even contest of the _Staring Game_ and she feels like family.  She fits into the little spaces in his heart like Safaa, Waliyha, and Doniya always have.  She clutches to him like a sister and, _fuck_ , that warm feeling heating his chest is so inescapable that he just rocks into it.

The coffee table is cluttered with plates, trays of nosh, cups, and stacks and stacks of board games he hasn’t seen since he was five years old.  There’s packs of playing cards, shot glasses, an itinerary that Doniya actually _typed out_ when she planned this Game Night and he thinks it’s oddly appropriate that he and Liam agreed to this than some silly Stag Night just three days before the wedding.

He’s never really liked strip clubs – “I only go to learn some new fancy tricks for the bedroom.  Still haven’t mastered the whole hanging upside down thing but that thing with the splits?  Harry loves it,” Louis had said two weeks before any of this but Niall still seemed hopeful at the idea of wasting half of his life’s savings on some tawdry girl named Rose or Sunshine – and Liam’s not much of a fan of night clubs.  They share far too many mutual mates now – something Louis points out when trying to conceive a guest list “just in case you change that daft mind of yours, Zee” – and, really, Zayn doesn’t think he needs one night to sow any wild oats or whatever bullshit mates like Ant and Danny try to feed him when Zayn shoots down the idea of an erratic night in the city like he’s part of some wolf pack.

He has Safi, he has Liam, he has this house and half of a dream he’s almost forgotten to chase.  Doing a pub crawl with his mates, snogging nameless women for fuck’s sake, and waking up with a headache, that dry taste in your mouth, and kissing the rim of some toilet wasn’t really his idea of a smashing time.  He’s certain Liam feels the same way too though he never asks.

Zayn doesn’t live under pretense, or he tries woefully not to, and he vaguely remembers the disappointed sound in Harry’s voice when Liam rung him up for a night of alcohol, nosh, and complicated games like Twister – “But I know some really ace places we could get into.  Loads of free drinks, VIP, best rooftop view of the city.  Connections, bro,” Liam truly hates that Harry’s learned such awful terminology through Nick, “And I’m telling you, it would be bloody brilliant.  Zayn could even stop by with Lou and Ni.  Last night of complete freedom.” – but Liam clicked his tongue against his teeth and smiled at Zayn in that way that tells him he really just wanted _this_.  Just a night, in their house, friends and family, and Zayn.  And maybe silly things like bachelor parties just were never them.

When Liam and Harry sweep in the front door like the final missing links in an already steely chain, burnt off laughter mixed with casual grins and Liam carrying case after case of beer while Harry manages to get by carrying just a large posh bottle of Russian vodka, Zayn smiles openly.  It’s ridiculous, something all white teeth with his tongue pressing against them, his mouth sliding sideways on his face with the corners of his eyes crinkling until they’re almost slanted and his cheeks are hiked up high on his face.  He palms at the back of his neck, the warm rush of blood running through his system stretching him toward some unexpected high as the curves of Liam’s muscles show beneath his skin and under that thin shirt he’s wearing, jeans riding a little too low on his hips.  He’s hauling in case after case, Harry finding a comfortable spot on the floor next to Louis’ feet, and Liam’s smiling shyly as he passes.

“Oh God, are you going to spend the rest of your life looking at my little brother like that?” Ruth giggles, fingers pressing sharply into Zayn’s arm.

Zayn gives her a little look that’s creased with pink high on his cheeks, ducking his head, and Doniya’s joining her in laughter.

“Probably,” Waliyha huffs, narrowing her eyes at Zayn.  It’s not malicious or unkind but she’s giving him a look that dares him to disagree.

“Probably,” Doniya concurs and, fuck it, Zayn’s not going to argue.

“It’s disturbing,” Louis says mockingly, never lifting his eyes from his phone and the tip of his pink tongue is peeking through his lips as he undoubtedly takes up Waliyha’s challenge from earlier on Candy Crush.

“Oi, innit?” Niall hums, reaching out to tousle his fingers through Harry’s thick curls.

Harry doesn’t whine, merely leaning into the touch with slow closing eyes, his breathing evening out like a small kitten and Zayn wonders how those two went so many fucking years without each other.

“Complete arseholes, you lot,” Liam teases right back, slipping back into the living room after toeing off his high tops at the door and sliding on some silly gray Batman snapback he seems quite obsessed with – a gift from Niall that, really, made Liam look like a sixteen year old but irrefutably adorable – that he wears backwards instead of properly.

“Oi, feelings hurt,” Louis fusses, a low whine in his voice that sounds distinctly adolescent.

“Language,” Ruth adds with a wrinkled face but they all know it’s put on.  Ruth swears nearly twice as much as Liam does and Nicola’s far worse.

He wishes Nicola was here, seated somewhere on the other side of his own body.  She’d settle on the side of reason – which usually meant she’d side with _Liam_ – but she’s two days away from making the trip down from Wolverhampton and, honestly, he thinks he’s a bit more chuffed about seeing her than Liam or Ruth might be.

The sting of his teeth chewing at his lips feels dull to the way his heart hammers, his skin tingles, his fucking breath seizes for just a few seconds.  Waliyha’s humming something by Nirvana but Zayn hears another tune in his head – _Hangin’ by the window, I’ve been dreaming ‘bout you. Feeling like I’m ready. It’s like I’m ready for you_ – while watching Liam crack a few beers, casually passing them out to Niall, Doniya, Ruth, ignoring Waliyha’s stretched out hand to offer her a Coke instead.  She clucks her tongue at him, a sharp eyebrow rising but he offers her that warm, electric smile he’s owned since he was five years old if the old photos Karen’s showed Zayn are any indication.  It wins Waliyha over nearly every time and it’s nearly automatic – the way the smile on Zayn’s pink lips stretches even further.

Louis pours himself a tall cup of Coke and vodka – no ice because, _“ice is for pussies and lightweights, to which I am neither”_ – while Harry settles for a couple of shots out of the colorful plastic glasses Ruth bought for the occasion, fighting off Doniya’s insistence that they find something more _“décor appropriate.”_ Doniya dishes out plates of chicken, bowls of stew, spicy beef and chips, a few other things Zayn doesn’t really pay attention to because he’s curling into Ruth, making just enough room on the couch for Liam to fit into a small space that nearly forces Waliyha off it with crinkled eyes and a wide grin.

They blink at each other while this little family of theirs chats about the wedding, which game to play first – “Truth or Dare seems appropriate.” “We already said no _six times_ , Lou.” “You’re rubbish Haz.” “You love me,” and Harry doesn’t sound teasing like Niall but, still, it feels repetitive – and they argue about things like the X-Factor and Simon Cowell.  Their breaths seem synchronized, lips parting but no words feel necessary.  Their shoulders brush, knees knocking, hands tiptoeing the edge of their thighs while their pinkies brush every other exhale.

“How’s Saf?” Zayn asks, his voice swallowed beneath the edge in Louis’ voice when Harry suggests they play Candy Land instead of Cluedo.

Liam grins, eyes crinkling a little more, cheeks lifting high.  His fingers move slowly, wiggling and reaching out for Zayn’s and Zayn fits them together perfectly.  He sniffs at the faint aroma of something lemony, something sharp behind Liam’s cologne, and he thinks he can smell that lavender bubble bath Safi still loves soaked into Liam’s shirt.

“Happy,” Liam whispers, the word tangled up in his smile.  Something sweet and bright like firecrackers works its way into Liam’s cheeks – _I crossed the desert. I crossed the sky. Looked for you forever, wake up the night_.  “He didn’t even wan’ kiss me goodbye.”

Zayn smirks, sideways like Waliyha, hollowing out his chuckle.

He knows Safi’s content at Tommy’s house, something they’ve slowly become accustomed to – Safi at Tommy’s half of the week, Tommy camping out in some makeshift fort Liam built for them on the weekends with marshmallows floating in cocoa and flashlights.  Tommy’s parents are quite older, looking more towards early retirement and what benefits the government will provide rather than weekends sipping on cider and lager with their mates, passing out in the backyard with the moon lighting a brilliant crossway between here and the ocean of opportunity life has.  They love Safi all the same – “He’s so polite.  Such a sweetheart,” Tommy’s mum tells Zayn constantly while they wait for school to let out – and Zayn feels safe knowing Safi’s with Tommy tonight rather than trying to sleep through Louis’ drunken singing and Doniya’s helpless giggling.

“Guitar Hero,” Harry suggests, his voice a deep drawl that’s a little slicker with the heat from the vodka.

“Halo,” Niall protests, arms folding over his chest.  How he manages to still scoop a piece of chicken off his plate, Zayn is amazed by.

“Tomb Raider.”

“I thought the Irish bloke was married to the whiny chap’s ex.  Where does the curly-haired one fit in?” Ruth whispers loudly toward Liam and Zayn buries his face in Liam’s shoulder to bite back the laughter.

“Cheers to polygamy,” Doniya says with a snicker, Waliyha sticking her tongue out at Liam as they trade silent banter that’s probably far more fascinating than anything coming from his best mates.

“Big word,” Louis hisses, downing half of his beer before he’s cracking open another one.

Harry tries to sound the word out, lips moving slowly while his tongue curls around every syllable and Zayn tries not to find that incredibly adorable.  Daft, yes, but adorable all the same.

Liam angles his head a little, regarding Zayn for a beat while Ruth and Doniya run down other suggestions that consist of loads of games Zayn’s only halfway played as a child.  There’s something spellbinding in almond brown eyes that hitches in Zayn’s next inhale, their fingers still tangled, Liam’s ankle running over Zayn’s but, again, no words seem to come out.

Two fucking school kids playing Russian roulette with their feelings and Zayn’s never been more intrigued by the dimples that are nearly invisible around Liam’s mouth.

“I’m up for beer pong,” Niall calls out, helpless little giggles that sound far too much like Doniya as he chugs one beer, Harry already popping open his next.

“This is not Uni, Niall,” Ruth says with a long sigh, already setting up a game of Monopoly that may consist of more than a few rule changes – “When you land on Boardwalk, take a shot.  When you land on a railroad, take _two_ shots.  Go to jail and collect…” “Three shots?” Louis suggests, a chorus of nods and drunken yes’s – but Zayn busies himself with the small looks Liam’s still giving him.

Liam’s hand finds the nape of Zayn’s neck, thick fingers digging into his skin until Zayn can’t help the smile on his face.  He breathes a little unevenly but it feels perfectly normal.  It’s just a parade of heartbeats, the glow in Liam’s eyes, and the music in Zayn’s head feels so loud now – _Some people fall, some people fall apart. Some people fall while running in the dark. Some people fall when they run out of luck. Some people fall, some people fall in love._

“If they’re going to do this all night,” Doniya groans, spilling vodka on the carpet as she pours out shots for Ruth, herself, and Harry.

“We’re all fucked?” Louis offers, his grin tipping high when Ruth makes a face.

“More like they’ll fuck and we’ll drink,” Niall says loudly with a salute, glittery blue eyes wide as shots are taken and he sips slowly at his beer.

“Rubbish,” Ruth breathes out, holding back a gag while wiping the back of her hand over her mouth.  Her eyes are watery from the sting of the alcohol but her face remains wrinkled from his words.

“You’re a walking tragedy,” Doniya notes, leaning back against the couch while Waliyha braids her hair.

“’m not walking,” Niall says a little blankly, looking around.

Harry reaches back to pat his knee empathetically, tipping his head back while Louis traces little hearts over his cheeks and dimple.

“You couldn’t if you tried,” Louis hiccups out, draining another beer like it’s the cure to too many thoughts in his head.

“Could too,” Niall mumbles.  “’m not that drunk.”

“Are you drunk at all?” Harry wonders, turning his head a little to look on Niall.

“You’re shit at Guitar Hero,” Niall barks.

“Fucking bullshit,” Harry says back, his brow wrinkling despite Louis’ soft, soft touches over his skin.  “Take it back.”

“Fuck off,” Niall says with a laugh, nicking a few chips from Louis’ plate.

Harry frowns, wide and usually sparkly green eyes looking wounded.  He shifts his head, blinking at Louis with a frown pulling down half of his face before whispering, “Make him take it back.”

Louis nods happily, flicking Niall’s feet before thumping his thigh.  “Arse.”

“You love – “

“I _don’t_ fucking love you, you twat,” Louis announces loudly and, yeah, Zayn doesn’t need a Stag Night or some loud club with colorful, spinning lights that blind him and too strong drinks that make him feel lightheaded and weak.

He needs the people in this room and that feels just enough.

They don’t make it an entire round of Monopoly – Doniya and Niall argue over who gets to be the thimble, Louis spends half the time complaining about the complexity of the rules, Liam’s kissing torn off edges of something deeper over Zayn’s cheek, the sharp slant of his jaw while Ruth and Harry trade off shots – and he’s not really sure why they agreed to play Trivial Pursuit instead because games that required thinking and, well, mostly thinking and alcohol never sounded brilliant.  Harry’s snuck away to the kitchen between rounds to grab energy drinks that Niall keeps stashed in the cupboards for those long days of work and studying on their floor – he’s changing majors again halfway through a term and, really, he thinks Niall just likes the monotony of a higher education.  Waliyha’s switching through tunes on the iPod dock – she’s ignoring all of Louis’ requests for Carly Rae and Taylor because she’s young but not desperate – while Ruth finds a spot on the floor next to Doniya to make more room for Liam cuddling up to Zayn on the couch.

Ruth makes them trade off into teams that seem a bit uneven with Liam crowded onto one side of the room with Niall, Harry, and Doniya while Zayn fits between Waliyha and Ruth on the other couch, Louis in Ruth’s lap because, suddenly, they’re madly in love with each other.  It’s a drunken haze, he knows, but it’s quite funny each time they laugh into each other’s neck while Liam lifts a curious eyebrow.  Waliyha makes an aborted noise every time Louis answers something wrong and Ruth gives him shit anytime Liam’s phone buzzes from across the room, Zayn texting out another correct answer for Liam that has him biting shamelessly at his lip while Doniya winks at him.

Niall’s quite bladdered before they finish the game, Harry and Ruth still trying to finish the other half of the bottle of vodka – Zayn and Liam join in for a few rounds that has everyone downing shots before taking long gulps of fizzy energy drinks – and Louis’ curled up to Harry on the settee.  Zayn doesn’t say anything when Doniya passes Waliyha a beer because Doniya’s still older, in charge, and he prefers Waliyha gulping a few beers with them rather than a bunch of riotous teen punks near the edge of city with the stars little pinpricks against a frozen sky.

“Trade you Liam for Zayn,” Ruth offers Doniya a little later, buzzed smiles on their lips as they lean against each other.  “He’s much prettier to look at.”

Doniya snickers, stringing fingers through Ruth’s bright blonde hair.  “Do we have that option anymore?”

Ruth shrugs, giggling again.  “Maybe.”

“Liam’s nicer in the morning,” Doniya mentions behind a heavy sigh.

“That he is,” Ruth agrees with a slow nod like the action alone will tip her off balance, “but Zayn’s a better dresser.”

“We can hear you,” Liam says from over his shoulder, fitted on the ground, Zayn pressed close to him.  “And what does that have to do with anything.”

Ruth gives a half-shrug this time and it’s supposed to be reason enough, at least Zayn thinks that what she means.

“Zayn’s stubborn.”

“Liam snores.”

“Zayn’s lazy.”

“Liam likes to get up extra early, wake the whole house, go for runs, and he’s quite loud when he’s shagging.”

“ _Oh_.”

Zayn pretends not to notice the sharp redness that’s trapped beneath Liam’s cheeks now, the way he ducks his head and their fingers are woven together in Liam’s lap, Liam counting off the tattoos on Zayn’s forearm, the stars in Zayn’s eyes.

“But they’re no good apart,” Harry says, sounding almost thoughtful and poetic, not the least bit fazed by far too many shots of expensive alcohol.  His neck his marked up with love bites and Zayn has yet to ask where Harry and Louis snuck off to between a lazy game of Cluedo and Guess Who? – He prays they didn’t stumble into their bedroom or, worse, Safi’s room for a quick fuck.

“They’re sort of a packaged deal,” Louis agrees and there’s a mumbled concurrence from Waliyha, pink-heart covered socks pushing at Zayn’s shoulder from the couch.

“The sun and the stars in orbit if you will,” Harry adds, cheeks flushed and emerald eyes shining off the sheen that comes with more than a few drinks.

“Cheers to that,” Louis hums, his fingers burying themselves in Harry’s curls.

Ruth smirks, her eyes doing that funny crinkle like Liam’s while her fingers push too blonde hair behind her ears.  She nods at Zayn, watches the way Zayn settles further against Liam like he’s shying away from all of the attention.  And, honestly, he is because he’ll never get used to this.  Any of this.

“Gonna be a Payne soon,” Ruth says lowly, still standing lazily against Doniya.

“Or a Malik,” Doniya chirps, smiling a little lazier.

“Or a Tomlinson,” Louis protests and Zayn watches quite a few sets of wide eyes fall on Louis.

“No,” Waliyha and Harry say together, a smirk and a frown colliding.  There’s a rumble of laughter like the edginess that comes with a storm and Niall kips through it all, snoring loudly while Ruth and Doniya discuss dresses for the rehearsal dinner tomorrow, musing about the way the seating arrangement is already going to leave room for much debate.

Waliyha wiggles down onto the floor with them an hour later, head in Liam’s lap, iPod on shuffle until everything blends together between Coldplay, Birdy, and the fucking Go-Go’s.  Doniya cleans up some of the mess, Harry and Ruth helping but Louis stretches out on the floor a little further away with a hand over his eyes to dim the light of the telly and overhead lamp.  The room is warm from dizzy drinks, laughter, hidden from the cool air outside that tastes like dead leaves, the sweet breath of October air, and a stiff chill.

“He’s the best,” Waliyha says, tracing her fingers over Zayn’s ring while looking up at Liam.  “Couldn’t ask for a better brother.  Absolutely ace.”

She doesn’t sound condescending like she could or slurred like he imagines she should be.  It’s careful, quiet like she’s thinking out each one of her words.  She’s biting at her lower lip – still that little girl he remembers before his parents told him to leave, raise his own son away from the curious eyes of his younger sisters – and Liam’s petting his fingers through her hair, pushing back the brim of his snapback.

Waliyha licks at her lips, that failed attempt at looking unimpressed now so bright and giddy.

“You too,” she adds, blinking up at Liam.  He schools a smile, arching an eyebrow, and Waliyha shrugs like what she says means nothing.

It means tons.  From her, it means the world.

“I fancy the idea of having another brother,” Waliyha whispers, thumbing at Zayn’s ring now.  Her cheeks pink and she’s hiding her eyes for a moment when Liam grins.  “I’m just sayin’.”

Yeah, he knows.  Zayn hopes Liam does too.

Somehow, after Waliyha’s tapping out things on her phone with her head still in Liam’s lap, Zayn loses himself in the way Liam’s nose is in his hair and they just blend together.  It’s like being underwater – something that still terrifies him no matter how many times Liam promises to teach him how to swim – and there’s a glass surface between his thoughts and feelings.  It’s cold but safe, deep but not too far down, and he doesn’t know how to wade but he tries to with this swell around him.  His tongue brushes over his lips, Liam running pretty shapes along his palm with just his index and middle finger, and the world feels so, so quiet.

“I don’t know what it was about you,” Zayn whispers, something classical like those songs Safaa plays at her piano recitals plays in the background, “that made me fall.  Wish I did.”

“Does it matter?”

Zayn wants to tell him _yes, it does_.  It truly does.  But figuring things like this out – why he breathes, why he wants to run away, why his heart beats so fast – is something he’s done longer than he can remember.  He likes to figure things out, understand how they work.

“No,” Zayn lies, biting off a smile that feels sweet against his mouth.  “I just know why I’m still here.”

“My cock?” Liam wonders, his nose wrinkling at the blush in Zayn’s cheeks, the way Waliyha looks at him upside down while making a painful face.

“Possibly.”

“What is it?”

Zayn sighs, his cheeks lifting high until his eyes go a little smaller.

“Tell you later,” Zayn whispers, leaning into Liam’s touch, the way Liam’s lips move against his hairline.

Liam makes a protesting sound but Zayn ignores it.  He settles into fingers moving up his wrist, the inside of his arm.  Dull nails run through his hair, shifting bits and pieces apart while he times his breathing to Liam’s humming.  Waliyha pays them no mind and Zayn can feel the thick of Liam’s heartbeat against his shoulder.  Just the catch of dry lips on his cheek, a little reminder that says _‘Yes this is right’_ and _‘I want to marry you’_ that bathes him in heat like the dry texture of the sun in the middle of autumn.

“Are we crazy?” Zayn asks, all of his little touches working their way over Liam’s tattoos, branching off to his neck, down over his stomach.

“Probably,” Liam teases lowly, fingers brushing against the sharp hairs on the back of Zayn’s neck.

Zayn chews his lip, staring at the wall rather than Liam.

“’s not mental,” Liam assures him when Zayn’s quiet for too long.  He’s drawing out little words – _‘love’ ‘you’ ‘happy’_ – that Zayn etches into his fears.

“And its cause we want to,” Zayn adds, his voice dulled by the pulse of his heart.  It’s all white noise and static but Liam’s smile is assuring.

“We do,” Liam agrees, grinning at the way Waliyha shoots them a lopsided look because, fuck, he’s being daft and Liam’s just being Liam.

“You love each other, dipshits,” Waliyha sighs out and Zayn doesn’t have the heart to reprimand her like Doniya would.

She’s right.  Maybe he just needs to hear it from somewhere other than Liam or his beating heart.

Their kisses aren’t planned out and Zayn smiles against Liam’s mouth more than he actually presses back but Liam doesn’t seem to mind.  They talk about the rehearsal and rings, where Safi should stand, but it all feels like nothing because he’s drifting into the way Liam feels, not the way he sounds.  It’s the way Liam’s nose feels against the nape of his neck, Zayn holding his breath for a few more seconds, drowning in the water.

Little noises that sound like Louis giggles that catch his attention – still two idiots in love with one another – before Liam’s smiling against his shoulder.  He smells like _Liam_ , something he wants to stick to his skin in a few hours after he’s had a cigarette and a timely blowjob from Liam.  He decides the way Liam circles his waist with one arm, still toying with Waliyha’s hair with his other hand, feels completely right for the time being.  And Zayn’s not ashamed of the way his grin actually hurts after a while.

He runs his thumb over the cold silver of Liam’s ring and this stupid idea feels brilliant when he decides to breathe in again.

**

“Wakey sweepy-head.”

Zayn blinks his eyes a few times, something sweet curling over his lips at the sound of Safi’s voice.  The dust of the morning sun flakes warm strips of light into the bedroom, rinsing away the howl of the night and eating away at the leftover thickness from the quiet dawn.  Everything is warm and bright, the glow of something tangerine dancing over the sheets, sharp against his discarded clothing from the day before, dancing like fireflies against the lenses of his glasses that are still resting on the bedside table on top of that unfinished Dan Brown novel he’s bee engrossed in for weeks now – he promises himself he’ll finish it in a few days, when the simmer of this wedding quietens.

He drags the heels of his hands over his eyes, filtering out that sticky sweet feeling that still weighs on him – not that he slept that much because, yeah, today is the day.

Zayn’s getting married today.

He sniffles a little, something inside of him wanting to sink far beneath the duvet for at least an hour more.  The room feels cold even though it’s filled with light and he wiggles his toes in his socks, his feet managing to slip from beneath that thick cover somewhere in the night.  It takes his eyes a few moments to adjust to the glare of the sun, the way it tickles over his face like the dust of starlight and there’s small hands – _Safi_ – on his cheeks, squeezing and pulling.

“Abbu,” Safi whines, everything still a little fuzzy but Zayn can make out those pleading bright lilac eyes.  “C’mon.  It’s today!”

Zayn smirks, the room dim and not nearly as lit up as Safi’s face when he finds his focus.  He slips his hands from beneath the blanket, reaching up to pat at Safi’s cheek in a placating way that still leaves Safi groaning and impatient.  He loves the way the sun halos behind Safi, breathing in the lingering scent of pumpkin spice from that delicious dessert his mum baked the night before and the cup of mulled cider Liam didn’t finish after dinner.

“Sunshine,” Zayn coos after a long yawn, stretching widely.

Safi smiles, pink lips spreading broadly across his face and the glow tints his cheeks the right shade of pink beneath the devastating sunglow complexion that’s there naturally.  He’s impossibly giddy, still missing a few teeth with crinkled eyes like Liam, cheeks like Zayn, untainted joy that’s all Safi.

“Baba, get up!”

Zayn snickers, yawning again, a swift hand finding the nape of Safi’s neck before he’s dragging Safi down onto the bed with him.  He curls his arms around Safi’s tiny body, ignoring Safi’s protesting laughter and straining limbs.  He peppers kisses to the top of Safi’s head, dragging his nose against Safi’s hairline with his broad hand rubbing sweetly over Safi’s back.  He lays a small kiss to Safi’s forehead after pushing back the fringe of his hair, the world a muted feeling against the swell of love he feels with Safi this close.  He laughs with Safi, tickling fingers over Safi’s ribs, against the tautness of his belly, anchoring his breaths with Safi’s rushed ones.

“Daddy’s already left,” Safi tells him when their laughter dies off.

They lie on their backs, watching the sun splatter colors over the ceiling, chests still heaving.  Safi’s fingers tickle lightly over his forearm, Zayn’s writing out his favorite love letters over Safi’s hip.  His cheek nuzzles to Safi’s head, the world spinning slowly and dangerously quiet like the birds can’t sing, the wind refuses to blow, the cars have no reason to move.

Nothing exists but him and Safi, his thoughts finally catching up with the rest of him.

Zayn nods slowly, exhaling lowly.  “Did you eat?”

“Yep,” Safi says with a kick to his voice.  Zayn doesn’t have to look at him to feel his smile.  “Daddy made me cereal and juice.”

Zayn grins, imagines Liam stumbling sleepily around the kitchen with lidded eyes and a slump to his shoulders.  He wonders if Liam slid into that jumper that smells just like Zayn, far too baggy for Zayn but it fits like a second skin against Liam.  Zayn bites at his lip thinking about Liam’s black socks sliding over the tiles, basketball shorts fitting loosely over those slender hips that were always an amazing contrast to wide shoulders and muscled arms when Liam was naked.

His teeth sink a little harder at the thought of Liam curled up to him in the night, the damp air biting at their skin with nothing but the thin material of jersey briefs and thick duvet separating them.

Safi turns a little beneath his arm, curling to Zayn’s hip, biting playfully at Zayn’s side.  Zayn strings fingers through silky hair and he thinks about orange juice with a little pulp, a hot cup of herbal tea, probably a protein bar, and Liam deciding to possibly skip his run because it’s his wedding day.  The kitchen probably smells like leftover chicken and scrambled eggs – Liam loves it when Zayn attempts to make them pancakes even though, after all of these years, Zayn’s still shit in the kitchen.  Liam loves cold pizza in the morning, leaning on the kitchen counter while thumbing through a paper and humming to the sound of Bruno Mars in his head.  He’s cranberry juice with toast, ice cold water after a morning run, sun-kissed skin looking damp and touchable whenever he’s chasing Safi around while Zayn fixes them bowls of porridge.

Little things he’s never going to get over.  He lets Safi play with the ring around his finger and, fuck, he’s never going to have to get over this now, is he?

“Uncle Lou is here,” Safi whispers like it’s a secret, giggling into Zayn’s ribs.

Zayn smiles hard, still dragging his fingers lazily over Safi’s scalp.  He can see Woody looking floppy and crumbled at the foot of the bed, right near his feet.

“Uncle Haz?”

Safi squeaks when Zayn’s fingers tickle down the back of his neck.  “Left with Daddy.  He looked so sweepy.”

Zayn wants to tell Safi, for the sixth time, the word is _‘sleepy’_ but he thinks it’s kind of cute that Safi still has that infantile speech even though he’s infinitely more mature than his classmates.  He drags Safi closer instead, not that there’s much space between where Zayn’s long and Safi is small.

“He probably had a long night,” Zayn mutters, sighing while watching the colors on the ceiling go from flaxen to ivory to a soft and cuddly peach.

“Huh?”

Zayn snorts, shaking his head.  “Nevermind.  He’ll be fine, Saf.”

He wonders if maybe Harry’s exhausted from taking on an extra shift at the radio station or maybe he’s doing some more campus promotions across neighboring pubs and clubs.  Maybe Louis was extra horny and, well, he doesn’t quite like where those thoughts are going.  He shudders, Safi hiccupping a small laugh, and he’s forgotten what this was like.  What it was like for it to be just him and Safi, like they were when Safi could barely crawl and things like promised happiness and Liam didn’t exist for him.

His lips quirk a little when he turns to Safi, fingers on the small of Safi’s back while Safi blinks large iris eyes up at him.  Those golden eyelashes sweep over cheeks looking like spun gold and everything about his son is just so… _magical_.  Cheesy as it seems, they just were.

“Excited?” Zayn asks with a sideways grin.

Safi nods quickly, tiny fingers digging into the wrinkled material of Zayn’s – no, _Liam’s_ – Iron Man t-shirt.

“It’s like waiting for Santa,” Safi boasts, laughing at his own joke.  “We’re gonna marry today.”

Zayn’s head tips back with a laugh that rattles in his chest, sharp and breathtaking.  He doesn’t have the heart to explain to Safi that, well, _he’s_ not getting married.  He doesn’t know how to break it down into something so simple like, _‘Your baba and your daddy are the ones getting married even though you probably don’t get it because we’ve been living together since you were old enough to hold your own bottle while sitting up’_ but he thinks, maybe, Safi gets it without him really saying.

Zayn yawns once more, leaning down to press a warm kiss to Safi’s nose and he doesn’t flinch when Safi steals his own against Zayn’s lips, wet and sloppy.

“You remember what to do?” Zayn asks, his voice still soaked in sleep, deep and dragging.

Safi nods slowly, still bright-eyed but with a little more withdrawal.  “Yes, abbu.”

“And you’re going to be good for Wali and Safaa, yeah?”

A smaller nod this time.  “I get to hold Leeyum’s hand?”

Zayn snorts, pressing their foreheads together.  “Yes, babe.”

“And Tommy can still come?”

His teeth worry his bottom lip for a moment, moving slow and gentle because, fuck, he doesn’t want them swollen and chapped on the day he walks down the… He sighs quickly because it’s still a bit overwhelming to think about.

“Yeah, Tommy’ll be there,” Zayn says quietly, trying to sound reassuring even though Safi brightens immediately at the mere mention of his mate.  Zayn wonders how that first conversation probably went – “My name’s Safi?” “What?” “My baba says it means pure.” “I watch _Cars_ six times a day because I want to be Lightning McQueen.”

He breathes in Safi for a second, rubbing at his shoulder while Safi tickles small fingers over the unshaven scruff lining Zayn’s jaw.  He smells like Liam, probably long hugs in the kitchen that ended with Safi begging to leave with Liam and Harry but he can’t.  Liam’s helping their mums set things up at the hall, probably laughing somewhere with Harry as they iron out all of those last minute details that always seem to fall into place just before someone’s getting married.

“It’s gonna be a long day,” Zayn warns Safi, his thumb sweeping over the soft tip of Safi’s small nose.

“I know.”

“Really long Saf,” Zayn adds and he watches the slight frown kissing at Safi’s lips.

“I can kip abbu?” Safi wonders, large eyes going impossibly soft and concerned.

“Me too.  For all fuck’s sake, ‘m gonna need one.”

Zayn grins brightly at the sound of Louis’ voice, peeking over his shoulder long enough to see Louis drag his feet through the bedroom before falling onto the large mattress with Safi pinned between them.  He can’t help the way he smirks at Louis’ sleep-deprived expression like he’s spent most of the night tossing and turning about all of this.  He reaches out, digging fingers into Louis’ artfully uncombed hair – everything sticking sideways like Louis _planned_ to look this rumpled and dashing, hair already stiff with product – and Louis’ cheeks and chin are sprinkled with as much scruff as Zayn’s.

“No bad words Uncle Lou,” Safi hisses, reaching back to smack at Louis’ arm.

Louis pushes out a sigh that sounds like he’s trying to be patient.  He scrubs his knuckles over the back of Safi’s head, leaning in until his face is mere inches from Zayn’s.

“My nephew is a brat,” Louis whispers, petting at Safi’s hair.

“Look where he got it from,” Zayn teases back, the corners of his mouth tugging upward and he spots the way Louis tries to look offended but, honestly, he can’t disagree about that one.

“Ready?” Louis wonders, his voice lowered.

Zayn shrugs, pinning his eyes on the ring still sitting so naturally around his finger.  Just a promise.  Unbroken and he loves Liam, fully.

“Sure.”

Louis rolls his eyes, smiling hard.  “You’re fucking mental, you know that?”

Zayn wants to remind Louis he was the one who once bought a fucking _tree_ for Zayn’s flat to liven the place up.  There’s no comparison, really.  He shrugs instead, catching the way Safi’s fussy and a bit irritated with Louis’ continued need to break the rules about foul language.

“How’s Haz?”

“A complete wreck,” Louis replies, laughing quietly.  “But that may or may not have to do with me not putting out.”

Zayn huffs out a laugh, fitting his fingers on the pieces of Safi’s head that Louis’ not touching.

“That won’t last long.”

“I have will power, you prat.”

“You also have a drawer filled with glow in the dark condoms, cherry-scented lube, and some rather disturbing porn,” Zayn reminds him, his voice a hiss and a whisper even though he knows Safi has no idea what he’s talking about.

“It’s _tasteful_ ,” Louis argues and neither one of them believes a word he utters.

Zayn wants Louis to define the word before trying to use it in a proper sentence.

“You’re going to make a wonderful father,” Zayn says with a tickling laugh.  His thumb sweeps over Safi’s cheek and Safi’s cuddling closer, eyes shut, that high from excitement starting to burn a little dimmer.  Maybe he could let Safi get in a quick kip while he showered, gathered their suits, packed Louis’ car with all the little things Liam forgot to take with him and Harry.

“So you’ve told me.”

“I was being sarcastic,” Zayn says dryly.

“ _Oh_.”  Louis’ expression is blank for a moment, twisting into something thoughtful and deep for just a second before he scowls at Zayn.

“I did not volunteer to be your best mate for you to be such a dick.”

Zayn wrinkles his brow, flicking the edge of Louis’ nose.  There’s a battle of glares that doesn’t really go anywhere before they’re ginning at each other, wrinkled lines around their eyes and he sighs with contentment.  Just a small brush of Louis’ fingers over his forearm reminds him that he’ll never survive this day without Louis right by his side, idiot best mate or not.

**

Safi wastes away the rest of the morning tucked into their bed with the duvet wrinkled around his ankles, droopy eyes, pretending to watch cartoons until he falls asleep.  Louis bustles around the house, running down a checklist of last minute things he compiled with Tricia and Karen – a few items Harry added like lube for the wedding night, toothpaste, and some tragically awful poem Niall wrote on the back of a McDonald’s napkin that Harry wants Doniya to read at the reception – and Zayn tries not to get swept up in the madness.

Tricia pulls in a little before eleven with Waliyha humming to Katy Perry and bags and bags of wedding shit crowding the backseat of the SUV.  She’s a mess of chatter on the phone with Liam’s mum – “No, don’t let Niall anywhere near the display and the guestbook should be at the table when the guests first walk in, not near the gifts table.” – as she follows Louis around, pressing a quick kiss to Zayn’s cheek and cooing over how adorable Safi looks curled up in the bed.  Waliyha chokes on laughter whenever Louis walks circles around the couch, into the kitchen, around the corner, down the hall like he’s the one getting married with all the nerves, freaked out expressions, and sweat slicking his brow.  It feels rushed, overdone, and Zayn forgets what _simple_ meant when they decided getting hitched was such a brilliant idea.

Zayn finds a spot on the front steps, bare feet tickled by the still dew-wet grass beneath his toes with his glasses resting on his nose and a pack of cigarettes in his hand.  He rests his elbows on his knees, patting the bottom of the pack before he peels out a fag and rolls it between his thumb and forefinger.  The air is damp with a chill he likes mostly because it reminds him of home and the way he could chat for hours with Ant or Danny while their parents mingled and the world stopped mattering.  His teeth work against the flesh of his lip and he flicks the flame to the end of the cigarette just before taking in a deep breath of the blue smoke that suffocates his lungs but feels better than it has in a long, long time.

He curls into the thick fabric of Liam’s hoodie – the black one that Liam sweats through on a good jog around the neighborhood when the air is a little colder than this with the sun stitching beams of light over too blue sky – before playing with a stray piece of thread on his cargo shorts.  The wind rustles down neat and unrelenting, dipped in cold like the sharp edge of November is coming.  The sky is a pewter blue, streaked in spots of gray, and he can’t really identify the origin of the sun behind the clouds but it still feels so completely normal.

Smoke drifts past his slightly parted lips, his thumb pushing over the bottom one and he wants to slip back inside to trade off this silly, black knit beanie for one of Liam’s snapbacks to feel even more at peace.  He inhales another breath of tobacco instead while letting his mind tick down the way his life could’ve gone had he not slipped into Liam’s flat that terribly rainy day years ago.

There’s a touch of warmth when Louis settles down onto the steps next to him, bundling close with his wild hair hidden beneath one of Harry’s beanies and his too tight jeans rolled just above his ankles.  Louis knocks their shoulders together, Zayn grinning behind another drag of smoke and their silence works against everything he’s trying to hide.

“You’re nervous,” Louis tells him after a beat, blue eyes giving all fucks away by the way they narrow.

Zayn huffs out a breath, the smoke circling them before Louis waves it off.  He doesn’t complain – Zayn’s kind of waiting on it – but he makes a face that has Zayn blowing the smoke out the side of his mouth the next time.

“How can you tell?” Zayn wonders, eyes flicking away from Louis’.  He bites down firmly on his lip because he can’t stand the way Louis looks at him.  It’s nothing judgmental or untrustworthy.  It’s just… _concerned_.

“First cigarette you’ve had after quitting two days ago,” Louis says with a half-laugh, still smiling like nothing about today matters.

He loves that about Louis.  The little ticks to his demeanor that tells Zayn it doesn’t always have to be such a big fucking deal.  He needs that, in doses.

“Can you believe ‘m getting married?” Zayn asks, his eyes flicking up to the sky this time.  He loves the way the smoke seeping from his lips lightens the crowded silver clouds and coal-blue backdrop.  His thumb flicks at the filter, knocking off the ash, Louis’ shoulder rubbing against his methodically until all he can think about is being cramped on a ratty couch while Niall laughed incessantly at _the Big Bang Theory_ and Louis’ fingers tangled in Zayn’s already mused quiff.

Days like that feel dusty and worn, the kind of memories he loves.

Louis gives a little half-shrug that doesn’t say much but his back is bowed as he pulls his knees to his chest, thumbing through his phone over another list of things – _Top Ten Reasons Why I’m Better than Zayn_ – while the cold air sinks into their skin.  It’s not an awkward kind of silence but it sits and waits for them to give up something more than hollowed breaths and little eternities of nothingness.  It’s an old feeling like Zayn fingering through a thick novel while Louis hums out every tune that reminds him of that stupid, curly-haired boy living across the hall.

“I can’t believe you fell in love with the lad from across the hall,” Louis finally says, his voice waning but he cuddles closer to Zayn and he’s devoid of that _come hither_ look he reserves for Harry.

 _You too_ , Zayn thinks, grinning but he takes a long, meditated drag of his cigarette and lets the smoke sit in his throat for a beat.  He’s chewing on his bottom lip when the smoke exhales his body through his nose and his toes wiggle from the cold, eyes trained on Louis’ prim and proper Sperry’s.  Their feet will slide into freshly shined shoes later that’ll reflect the last bits of the sun and remind Zayn of those stupid suits they wore to a school formal with their hair slicked back, little patterns of posh melted into their insanely middle-class lives.

“I can’t believe you’re getting married,” Louis says a little lower, head falling to Zayn’s shoulder for a breath or two.  He’s biting at his lip with a little more nervousness than the one Zayn’s been carrying in his back pocket for weeks now.

“Yeah,” Zayn says as an afterthought, another pull, another breath of wasted smoke.

“Not jealous.”

“Shouldn’t be,” Zayn tells him, changing the cigarette between hands to slide his arm around Louis’ back, fingers resting idly on Louis’ hip.  He taps out something like Kings of Leon – they loved them when they were younger but he thinks Louis really fell in love with them when he fell in love with Harry – and waits for Louis to finally breathe properly again.

“It’s weird,” Louis whispers, thumb rolling over his chin, bottom lip poking out.  “Me best mate tying the knot.”

Zayn laughs, short and tight.  He blinks away the dazed glare of the sun that’s trying to maintain its dominance over the long stretch of clouds.

“I can’t believe Nialler married my ex-girlfriend,” Louis adds, his own laugh shaking his belly but not doing much else to rid Louis of that thoughtful look like this is all adding up to something disastrous.

They snort together, Zayn’s fingers tickling out something by Miguel now while Louis hums the first few bars of something familiar like Adele on Sunday mornings.  Louis’ head shifts, nose running over the shell of Zayn’s ear and they feel warm and complete even with the wind hissing a chill over their bodies.

“He made us look pathetic,” Zayn says with a sigh, still smiling.  His scruff catches on Louis’ cheek, watching the cherry glow bright orange when he puffs in another breath.

He imagines Niall overslept – something he’s prone to right before major events – and he’s probably twisted up in thick comforters with his mouth wide open, snoring, while Eleanor spends hours in the mirror trying to perfect something she was born with.

“ _He’s_ pathetic,” Louis grumbles, his brow lowering, petulant in the way his face scrunches.  “But I love him.”

“You do,” Zayn agrees with a breathier smile.

“I can’t believe how great you’ve done with Safi,” Louis chuckles but it doesn’t feel like a joke.  Not when those blue eyes, rivers of silkiness, seem so honest when Zayn finally turns to look at Louis.

Zayn’s brow lifts, slow inhale from his cigarette leaving his lungs burning but that might be the thickness of his thoughts.  His thumb draws little circles into Louis’ hip and Louis nods at him like there’s nothing else to really say about that.

“Can’t believe you fell in love with a chap like Haz,” Zayn says and he is teasing, the corners of his lips curving high on his face.  He knocks their knees together, his hand shifting higher on Louis’ ribs, over his elbow, chasing the fresh drop of a breeze against Louis’ shoulder.

“I’m an idiot.”

“Completely.”

“Fuck off,” Louis laughs out, the sound barking through the stiff air and echoing down the street.

Zayn watches Louis slide through a few more icons on his phone, smirking.  He leans in, the tip of his nose inching against Louis’ stubble and, with his eyes closed, he lets his heart settle.

“Can’t believe ‘m gonna be an uncle soon,” he says, hushed and warm, knocking away some of that used up tension that coils around his stomach.  His flicks his tongue over his lips, missing the way Liam’s kisses taste like pizza sauce and cherry Coke on Wednesday mornings.

“Fucking mental,” Louis says with a dragging sigh.

“Yeah,” Zayn breathes out, his next inhale of oxygen chased down by a drag of thick smoke.

Louis’ arm finds its way around Zayn’s bowed shoulders, chin resting on his own knee, the taste of October so chilled and hot against his lungs.  They share smiles, their faces so close and Zayn’s never this comfortable with any of his mates, not even Niall.

“Things this wonderful don’t happen to idiots like us,” Louis grins, his brow pushed up and the curves of his smile look a little less Satanic and a little more devoted.

Zayn smiles back, willing and hopeful, his eyes crinkling up into tiny slits with his tongue pressing firmly against his teeth and he can see the rose hue sparking up over Louis’ cheeks, the oceanfront blue in his eyes.  He feels the little stutter in his heartbeat that goes _‘Liam is the reason for this’_ and he tries not to think about being seventeen, jaded by poor mistakes and his parents need to teach him a lesson, with a best mate who always had the most shit ideas.

Louis still does, but maybe a little less frequently.

“Love you,” Zayn says just because it’s been caught in his throat since Louis found a seat next to him.

“Completely unnecessary,” Louis snorts back, bumping their knees, “but thank you.”

Zayn flinches his smile sideways, pulling a face for a moment, before nodding.  The cigarette burns off between his fingers, the ash thick and clumpy, and he sighs when Louis draws back.  Just an insanely large plant and the silly notion that it would liven up Zayn’s flat gave Louis a smile, a heartbeat, and a daughter soon to be his but Zayn thinks that stupid plant gave him a million more things.

“You need to quit that vile habit.  It makes you stink,” Louis notes, his lip curling when Zayn lifts the fag for a quick and final inhale.

“Bullocks,” Zayn shoots back, smirking until it’s all white teeth and the tip of his tongue caught between.

“Fucking hell Zee,” Louis groans with a sigh, waving off the smoke before sliding away.

“Piss-face.”

“Such a twat,” Louis huffs, dusting his trousers off when he stands.  He makes his way toward the door, a quick glance over his shoulder betraying his lips to a brilliant smile.  “You’re getting married in a few, love.”

Zayn nods, a weaker smile folding over his lips with sharp, almost neon pink stains on his cheeks.

“Fucking mental, yeah?”

Louis puffs out a laugh, low and even.  “Cheers mate.”

It’s all Louis has to say before he’s climbing a few steps and sliding back inside the house.  The door clicks shut and Zayn takes in a few drags that feels methodical rather than meditative.  He blows out the smoke with an easy breath, glancing down at the ring still nestled around his finger.  It draws up a smile and he feels dumb, giddy, wasted on anticipation.

 _Just a few more hours_ , he thinks and it sort of sits on the tip of his tongue like beads of something sweet.  He stubs out the already dead cigarette, rubbing his hands together to warm them from the dull cold, before he finds his footing and moves toward the front door.  He waits, hesitates on a breath, because his heart drums loudly for one reason: _Liam_.  He worries the pounding sound alone will wake Safi the moment he crosses the threshold into his bedroom and, fuck, he can’t get over any of it.

 _A few more hours_.

**

The sky is lit by a nice azure-silver stream that seems endless, forever long and decorated in those auspicious clouds that make you wonder if it’s just a hazy sky or if rain is soon to fall.  There’s a twinkle of lightning in the distance, far too far to be very noticeable but it’s enough to leave the trees near the banquet hall shaking.  The still breathing leaves are dancing over the long stretch of grass that’s losing its lively ivy color in favor of something dim and emerald, just a shadow of what it once was.

The hall is separated from most of the town, deep off the countryside where things always seem quiet and reserved.  It’s near an old hotel that’s now a bed and breakfast lodge that not many frequent but it’s the kind of place you only stay a few hours at just for the scrambled eggs, bacon, large and fluffy French toast, cups of coffee, tea or freshly squeezed orange juice, and a nice view of the farmland that seems desolate but beautiful under the clipped rays of the sun.

The pool house just off the lodge and hall has been redone into something like a suite for events like this where the guests can change, prep, longue in nerves and bundles of excitement that prick at the skin like the needle readying to dip ink into your flesh.  There’s an en-suite on the inside of the hall that Zayn knows Liam’s using for the members of his wedding party, probably something like a fraternity wing with loud music, dancing, laughter, a dangerous curve of a smile rather than the frown perched on Zayn’s lips as he looks himself over in the mirror for far too long.  He’s fiddling with the top button of his shirt, closing and opening it robotically while running his other hand over the clean white material, the stiffness from being pressed and starched repeatedly unwelcoming against the smooth of his palm.

“Fuck,” he hisses lowly, thumbing at a few strands of his hair, trying not to muck up the ‘do Doniya and Waliyha fussed over for an hour – “Too much hairspray.” “He looks like James Dean.” “Who?”

It’s not exactly a tall quiff that he usually wears for occasions like this – not that, you know, he’s ever had to fix his hair for a wedding; his own wedding – but it’s thick with product and hairspray, a bit curly from the shower and it’s loose rather than stiff and gigantic.  His thumb runs over the smooth of his cheek, still prickly stubble coming in even though he shaved hours ago.  The almost fluorescent lighting of the room makes his eyes look satin gold, thick traces of honey brown that remind him of Liam on lazy mornings beneath a rising sun.  He smirks at that, his tongue licking over his lips and he settles on not bothering with his shirt anymore, focusing on his trousers, the snaps and the creases down each leg.

Waliyha’s in a corner of the room, layering a fresh rose color paint over her nails, humming to herself.  There’s a dress spread out over the chair near her, one she refuses to slip into despite all of their mum’s ordering, and it’s all satin, shiny, a deep wine color that Zayn’s still not sure about but he let Doniya and Ruth decide things like that because, honestly, he didn’t really care what the color scheme was.  He didn’t give two fucks if their shoes were open-toed or strappy or if their hair should be up or down.

Niall’s slouching on a leather couch just behind Waliyha, the tip of his tongue hanging out of his mouth as he focuses thoughtfully on the large telly in front of him.  He’s engrossed in a very competitive game of Mario Kart with Safi – huge mistake because, well, Safi’s actually pretty good at the game thanks to Harry – and Zayn tries not to laugh each time Safi knocks him off the track with a turtle shell and a heaping laugh as Yoshi passes Wario on the racetrack.  He’s half-dressed, his coat hanging next to Zayn’s by the door with his tie undone, his trousers hiked up and starting to wrinkle – no doubt another thing for Tricia to fuss about when she returns – and his hair is sort of a fluffy mess, making him look impossibly young and every bit that Uni student from Mullingar Zayn remembers years ago.

Louis’ on the other end of the room, a thick mist of hairspray surrounding him as he tips every strand of that brown hair into place.  There’s a floor length mirror in front of him, a vanity to the side that’s covered in dirty brushes, cans of hairspray and wax, makeup – because Louis needs concealer to cover up the bags under his eyes, according to Louis of course – and hairbrushes that Louis and Doniya have been alternating between to make sure every strand is in place.  He’s bopping in the mirror, the blare of music drowning out the sound of Safi’s giggling – _Pucker up in sunglasses, making love to the flashes. Posing the way that we do for everybody to see_ – and Zayn doesn’t think he’ll ever get over this obsession with Carly Rae Jepsen, despite all of Harry’s trying.

“You’re trying too hard,” Waliyha remarks, all sideways lips and quirked eyebrow as she looks at Louis.

“Not hard enough,” Louis hums back, doing up his tie like a professional – _I’ll take a picture of you, taking a picture of me._

“Ego, Lou.  Check it.”

“Brat,” Louis sighs, grinning in the mirror when his hair falls into place.  Its slicked back, drawing attention to the definition in Louis’ cheeks, the sharpness of those blue eyes.

“Sharp man,” Niall calls from over the couch, his smile hiked up.

“See Wali,” Louis says with a drummed up tone, spinning into those too shiny shoes.  He rests his hands on his hips, defiant with the lift of his chin and curl of his lip.  “Nialler knows good taste.”

“I was talking about Malik, you twat,” Niall corrects, smirking just a little harder when Louis’ face falls.

“Wanker.”

“Tosser.”

“And the fun begins,” Waliyha says with a heightened sigh, still smiling.

“Uncle Ni!”

“Christ, this kid is some kind of gaming whiz kid or something,” Niall protests, plopping further into the bouncy cushion of the couch and they start up another round while Safi’s tie, jacket, and socks lay over the back of the couch.

“Blame Haz,” Zayn says, just a little defeated, biting at his bottom lip, ignoring the little tut from Louis.  He knows he shouldn’t but, fuck, he wants a cigarette and maybe a couple of shots of whiskey and this damn shirt is _suffocating_ him.

“Do not do such a thing,” Louis demands but it sounds a little weak as Louis dusts off his jacket, dabbing on just a little more makeup to rub out the circles around his eyes.

“It’s kind of sickening how much you love him,” Waliyha remarks, dusting her own cheeks with blush before adding eyeliner to her already pronounced eyes.

Louis spins again, ever graceful and dramatic.  “I do not love him.  I’m using him for his looks.  And for a kid.  His cock too.”

Niall gags audibly, Waliyha arches her eyebrow high, and Zayn prays Safi’s too caught up in lapping Niall to really pay attention.

“You’re gross,” Niall notes, thumbs moving manically over his controller but it’s not really doing much.

“You’re vapid,” Louis shoots back, turning to the mirror again – _Tomorrow always happens too soon. I wish I had an electric moon to save the light._

“Learning new words from your boyfriend?” Waliyha wonders, gazing into her compact before puckering her lips.  She grins in satisfaction.

“He’s not – “

“Come off it Lou,” Niall begs, still dazed by the game but he’s glancing over his shoulder occasionally, gently pushing Safi to knock him off track with a smirk.  “He’s been the Wendy to your Peter Pan since the day he moved across from us.”

Louis makes a strangled noise and Zayn smiles.  He knows Louis can’t really disagree though he’s certain Louis’ going to try to.  It’s inevitable.

The music switches to something a little more jazzy, something almost from another era until he hears the smooth sound of Madonna’s voice creep in – _Sooner or later, you’re gonna be mine. Sooner or later, you’re gonna be fine._ He smirks in his own mirror, watching Louis sway a little, winking in the mirror, probably daydreaming about Harry and it’s always been like this.

Waliyha’s humming along, legs crossed, blowing gently across her nails to dry them.  Niall drags Safi into his lap before the next round begins, bouncing Safi’s small body on his knee while burying his nose into Safi’s product-stiff hair, smirking.  Zayn lifts his tie, lets it hang around his neck, skipping over the waistcoat for just a moment before dragging sock-covered feet over the carpet toward Louis.  His hands find Louis’ hips, both rocking slowly to the soft percussion – _Baby, you’re mine on a platter. I always get my man_ – and their smiles are synchronized.

He catches Tricia peeking in, her lips frowning when she realizes Waliyha has yet to slide into her dress while Doniya stands outside, fussing on her phone over boutonnieres, decorations, the fucking ambiance of the banquet hall that was supposed to be _Midnight Lovers in_ Paris rather than _Sunsets in Madrid_.  She smirks while watching Louis and Zayn, Zayn’s cheeks pinking, and everything seems calm.  Except he’s worried about the rings, his silly tie, whether Safi will know where to stand even though they’d rehearsed _eight times_ the day before for fuck’s sake.

“It’s okay,” Louis whispers, his voice just beneath the growl of Madonna’s – _I’m gonna love you like nothing you’ve known. I’m gonna love you and you all alone_.

“If you say so.”

“I _know_ ,” Louis insists and there’s something soft in his smile that hitches Zayn’s breath.

He smiles, his cheeks lifting and Louis’ eyes brighten like the tips of Christmas lights.  He nods at Louis, arms closing around Louis’ waist and he tries to settle the way his stomach coils and tightens.  He laughs it off, his chin resting on Louis’ shoulder while Tricia fusses with Waliyha once more over why she’s wearing a dress and not a suit.  Doniya’s lifting Safi into the air, his giggles dancing over the beat of the music, while Niall decides to slide into his jacket – it fits perfectly despite Niall’s complaints about it being too tight and Louis telling him to lay off the Nando’s until after the wedding – and this feels kind of perfect.

This room, with his mates and family, feels like it should.  It scares him but he refuses to let it show.

“Harry says Liam can’t stop chatting about you,” Louis remarks, thumbing through a message on his phone.

Zayn’s smile lifts, fevered gold hiding the rose in his cheeks.  He sighs lowly, teeth finding his lip again and he flips Louis off before he can fuss at Zayn.

“’m getting married,” Zayn whispers, eyes lowering but he watches Louis’ through his lashes in the mirror.

Louis nods, slow and confident.  “You are.  When the fuck did this happen?”

Zayn shrugs and, really, he doesn’t have an honest answer.  It just did.

“Oh God, El says the other room is a complete mess.  Nicola can’t find her shoes and Liam’s mum hates the way Harry’s jacket fits.  Christ, I need a drink,” Gemma announces, gold-brown hair spun up into a bun as she eases over the threshold into the room.

Her cheekbones are feathered in soft pink dust but it does little to hide the dimples and the way she looks soft, Cherubic, and kind like her brother.  Her eyes aren’t as bright as Harry’s but she’s got that same slide to her smile when she talks and Zayn loves the way she’s never anything but happy and brilliant.  She’s the breath of fresh air that keeps things calm, something Zayn wishes he had around more often.

“This place isn’t much better,” Waliyha says, making a face when Tricia lifts that silly dress that Waliyha is shaking her head at, defiant with her eyes rather than mouth.

“You’re wearing the dress Wali.”

“’m _not_.”

“You two are terrible,” Doniya remarks, using the other mirror to fix her hair, again.

“Not much better than Lou and Harry,” Gemma insists with a beaming smile.

“Oh come on Gem, we are – “

“You’re lucky I love you so much Lou,” Gemma says quickly, crossing the room toward Doniya.  She helps tuck a few odd strands into place.  She gives a quick glance over her shoulder, winking at Louis.  “I can barely tolerate my little brother, let alone you _and_ him.”

Gemma and Doniya fall into a round of laughter and stories about their brothers, things Zayn wishes his sister wouldn’t tell, you know, the world, and Louis’ inching out of Zayn’s embrace to help Niall with his waistcoat while Safi dances manically around the room, Tricia chasing after him to get him into the rest of his suit.  Zayn sighs, arms folding over his chest and, he thinks, he can slip away just for a moment for a quick cigarette to smoke out all of the cloudy thoughts in his head.

**

He’s halfway through a field of dimmed green grass when he spots Harry.

He’s done well avoiding most of the people when he snuck out the pool house, exchanging greetings, hugs, and little waves to his cousins, a few of Liam and Harry’s mates like Andy and Nick, trying to steal away from small chats with Liam’s dad.  He’s certain Doniya’s going to fuss over his hair but Karen had been so inconsolable when she hugged him, Nicola too, as she drug her fingers through his hair and sobbed about how happy she was for Zayn and Liam.

He forgot his jacket and the air is a nice chill that leaves behind goosebumps in the wake of a breeze.  He’s been twisting a cigarette between his forefinger and thumb for more than a few steps, contemplating lighting it but he knows his mum will be pressed about him smelling like tobacco and dry air when he returns.  Still, the temptation is there and he thinks it’ll make him feel slightly better about it all.

Harry’s beneath a barren tree, leaning against it with wrecked curls, big green eyes, and a little pull to his lips that looks nothing like the genuine grin he usually carries.  The wind is catching the end of his jacket, blowing it open with his tie looking crooked but his waistcoat slims out his already lithe frame.  His cheeks are devoid of that pale dusting of pink they usually carry, the dimple hidden, and he’s watching the way the prickling grass turns and turns under the sharp wind.

The sky’s turning an uneven grayish color, a stark contrast to the way the sun still filters through to wet the heavens in dead gold and simmering canary just off to the left.  Zayn catches his bottom lip with his teeth again, hears Louis in the back of his head – _“I will fucking kill you if you look a wreck on your fucking wedding day you fucking prat.”_ – but it’s comforting without the smoke from a cigarette.

“Think it’s going to rain?” Zayn asks when he slides up next to Harry, leaning against the bark with the wind slicing against his skin.

Harry smiles softly, lifting his chin to watch the clouds roll.  “With you two?  It’s inevitable.”

Zayn smirks, bites down on a laugh as he elbows Harry.  “Fuck off.”

Harry sputters his own laugh, one that sounds a little muted and nothing like the usual Harry he’s known for far too many years now.

“My parents just got here.  Gem brought a date.  Some prick named John or Paul or – “

“Ringo?” Zayn offers, tongue rolling over his lips to lick off a giggle.

Harry rolls his eyes immediately, nudging his hip to Zayn’s.  “Fucking idiot.”

“Got a chance to chat with Lou’s parents and sisters?” Zayn wonders, breathing in a deep inhale of cold air.  It sets a fire to his lungs and, yeah, he likes that.

Harry nods slowly, blinking at the sky.  There’s a frown pulling at his lips, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard.  His shoes shuffle in the grass, fingers pushing into his palm.

“I love his family,” Harry says, his voice dead now.  The breeze kisses at his cheeks, leaving behind a nice scarlet hue that Zayn admires.  “They love me.”

“They do,” Zayn agrees, grinning.

He can remember the holiday Louis and Harry took last Christmas, Louis’ mum raving over Harry even though it wasn’t the first time Harry’s been home with Louis.  Still, his family seemed to adore Harry as much as they loved Louis, a rare thing because Louis’ sisters may be younger but they’re tough – he doesn’t think they were exactly fans of Eleanor for the better half of Louis and El’s relationship – and Louis’ dad isn’t much of a fan of anyone, not even Niall.  But they clung to Harry, calling days on end when they returned and Zayn remembers the smile dancing over Louis’ lips whenever Harry answered with a nervous _hello_ and a fumbled grin.

“Do you think I’ll make a good father?” Harry asks, his voice tight.

Zayn wrinkles his brow, blinking at Harry.  There’s discouragement in Harry’s eyes, fear tight around the rim.  It’s nothing like the Harry who sat in the dark with him, chatting about Liam, encouraging Zayn when he knew nothing of what his future held.  His cheeks pale, bottom lip wrestled down by those white teeth and Zayn inhales deeply – the smell of pine and a dark coldness filling him – before pushing out a smile.

“You’ll be amazing,” Zayn admits and it’s true.

Harry _is_ amazing.  With Safi, he’s brilliant.  With Louis’ sisters, he’s incredible.  Even with Safaa, though she’s a bit older, Harry is so father-like.  He’s paternal and caring and Zayn can’t imagine Harry being awful at it like he is at karaoke or any kind of sport.  He’s thoughtful, kind, a dash of immature which works well with children because they need the freedom to be just that – _children_.

“I don’t think so.”

“Yeah, well,” Zayn sighs out, still smiling.  He nudges his elbow against Harry’s ribs, the corners of his mouth rounding.  “I don’t think you or Lou are bright enough to know better.”

Harry grins, everything lopsided and calm for a moment.  “You dick.”

Zayn shrugs and nods.  Louis rubbed off on him years ago, whether either one of them ever noticed it or not.

His hand cups the nape of Harry’s neck, fingers sliding into unruly curls, their eyes watching the way the sky darkens a little more.  Harry hums off a few bars of something sweet – _All I know is a simple name. Everything has changed_ – while his fingers drum out the melody like he’s known it all his life.  Zayn imagines he sings it into Louis’ ear in the dark of the night, cuddled beneath endless layers of sheets, Louis’ face pressed into the crook of Harry’s neck like he’s hiding from the way he feels.

“Think I want to marry him,” Harry remarks, his voice rough but there’s a smile curling around every word.

Zayn doesn’t look at Harry, the smile on his lips thickening.  He lifts his brow until it touches his hairline and the gray burns brighter when the sun forces its way through.  Thunder echoes far off, over the city, announcing its return.

“Really?”

Harry laughs, deep and warm.  “Maybe.  I don’t know.  He’s quite the little shit.”

 _He is_ , Zayn thinks but grins instead.  His teeth bite at just the edge of his lip, Harry’s breath sounding like – _All I know is you held the door. You’ll be mine and I’ll be yours_.

“Are you ready for that?” Zayn asks, swallowing down the way it feels like he’s asking himself that.

“Are _you_?”

Zayn snorts, nodding.  His fingers dance further up, getting lost in those curls.  “I am.”

“Yeah,” Harry breathes out, the ghostly breeze light and a tad warmer.  “You are.”

Zayn slides the cigarette into his front pocket and knocks his shoe to Harry’s.  He watches the way Harry leans into his touch, brothers in this fight.

“I used to always worry that, you know, if I ever fell in love, there would be no one around to look after Liam,” Harry admits, everything sounding cool, quiet, wilted under the sound of laughter and chatter coming from the banquet hall.  He blinks his eyes closed, the green hidden behind lashes.  “He’s my best mate.  I know he’d give half of his world for me and, I don’t know, I worried he’d be all alone.  He’s the kind of chap who’d be alone and happy because his mates were in love.”

Zayn puckers his lips, the wind scratching at the back of his neck.  He thinks Liam would settle for emptiness if it meant everyone else in his life were full of sunshine and bliss.

Harry turns his head a little, the green returning, his smile too.

“Then you came along,” Harry announces, everything bright and glowing again.  “You and your love for comics like a geek.  You and your cheekbones and the way you laugh at all of his stupid jokes.  The way you look at him like you can’t believe how amazing he is when, really, Liam’s a complete dork.  But you love him.  I think you loved him since that first day.”

It scares Zayn a little, the thought of it.  The way he thinks, sometimes, he actually did fall in love with Liam that day.  Or the day he was soaked in rain and Liam invited him in.  Maybe it was the day Liam held Safi in the dark, everything smelling like lavender and warmth and Liam.  He doesn’t think he’ll ever figure it out but, _fuck_ , he’s loved Liam for a long time.

“’m doing the right thing, right?  Like, this isn’t too much?  Because it feels like,” Zayn pauses, fingers flexing at his side.  He swallows once, twice, feels the way his heart fucking rattles in his chest.  “Like this is all a bit much.”  He waves his hand around at everything and he’s hot beneath the cold, trying to avert panic but it’s pinching unfairly at his skin.

Harry smiles, honestly, hip-checking Zayn.  “Don’t.”

“’m not,” Zayn argues back because he already knows.  He’s been doing this – the lip-biting, the narrowed eyes, the panicking thing that everyone does before a wedding – but he’s been good at remembering that he’s not doing this for his family.  Or for his friends.  Or for Safi because, wedding or not, Safi will always be Liam’s.

“You are.  Fuck, Zee, you _are_.”

“Fuck off,” Zayn hisses but it’s far from malicious.  It’s all he can think to say.

Harry’s hand, cold and large, cups Zayn’s cheek.  There’s warmth in his expression, green eyes large and welcoming.  He feels alive and ready to prevent Zayn from running.

Zayn’s not sure he’d let Harry stop him, but he doesn’t really think he’d run either.

“It’s fucking perfect,” Harry finally says, the world outside fading off.  There’s a smile brushed over Harry’s lips like he knows Zayn’s thinking too hard.  His thumb eases over the bridge of Zayn’s nose and Harry’s electric with the kind of brightness that’s blinding.

“Think Liam likes it?”

“He _loves_ it,” Harry explains, inclining inward until his forehead is against Zayn’s temple.  “But only because he has you here.  He just wants to fucking marry you, you daft fuck.  Get over yourself already.”

“Did that a long time ago.”

Harry laughs breathy in his ear, nodding.  “You did.  So c’mon, let’s get this over with.  Lou looks fucking _fit_ in his suit and I really just want him to fuck me in the loo or something but I don’t want to smell like sex and his spunk on your wedding day.”

“Thanks,” Zayn mutters, making a face and the sound of Harry’s cackling barks over the strum of thunder nearing.

He thinks it’s sort of perfect – rain on the day he’s marrying Liam.  How perfectly poetic.

**

The seats in the banquet hall are all nearly filled, just a few scattered in the middle, some in the back, the ones in the front reserved for members of the wedding party that haven’t crossed the aisle.  Yasser is seated with Safaa to his left and an open seat for his mum at the end of the row.  The chairs are covered in white linen – a touch of Louis – with gorgeous purple and blue flowers hanging off the chairs at the end of each aisle – a bit of his mum and Karen too.  The middle aisle is lined with a white cloth, scattered flowers from one of Louis’ sisters already adding a touch of color to the ivory scenery.  Karen and Tricia are lighting candles at the front where an older gentleman is officiating.  He’s tall and a little slumped over with crow’s feet lining his eyes and he’s a hearty man with a bellowing laugh and the kind of smile that warms you everywhere.

Eleanor sits with Louis’ family, Gemma smiling from her seat next to Liam’s dad.  He pretends not to notice the way Karen and Tricia are clasping hands, holding on tightly with tears already soaking their perfectly done up faces, as they move toward their seats on the opposite of each other.  A friend of Liam’s sits at the piano, stroking away something beautiful that knocks against the walls.  Ruth and Nicola have already moved down the aisle, Doniya and Waliyha too, and Zayn can’t help the grin flicking at his lips when he looks on Waliyha standing next to his sister, dressed in a sharp black suit with her hair pinned up and little flowers tangled in the dark locks.  She’s holding a bouquet like the one Nicola, Ruth, and Doniya have and there’s a tight smirk on her lips when their mum shakes her head disapprovingly.

“Ready?” Louis asks from behind him, hands clasped on Zayn’s shoulders, fingers digging in.

Zayn sighs, trying to push out a smile as he watches Niall and Nick make their way down the aisle.

“Don’t know.”

“Fucking hell, Zee,” Louis says with a low laugh.  He presses a sloppy kiss to Zayn’s cheek and Zayn thinks to push him off but, really, he can’t find the strength.  “You’re _fucked_.”

“Probably so,” Zayn says quietly, choking out a laugh.

“Good thing Li loves you.”

“Definitely,” Zayn says a little softer, blinking at the crowd from behind the door, fiddling with the collar of his shirt.

Louis slaps his bum, sharp and hard, before stepping away with a snicker and it’s quiet, quiet for way too long before Harry and Louis are moving down the aisle toward the front.  Harry’s all smiles, arm hooked with Louis’ while Louis is cocky, dramatic, fucking fanning at his face like he’s about to cry and Zayn can’t fight against the grin quirking his lips.  It’s classic Louis Tomlinson and this feels a little less constricting with people like Louis, Harry, and Niall there.  Louis finds his spot next to Niall, Doniya and Waliyha close behind, while Harry blows a kiss toward his parents before edging up next to Nick with the kind of cheeky smile that he lights up for things like this.  The crowd flashes quick pictures, everything loud and hushed at once, anticipation building like the thunder in the opening of a Queen song.

Zayn wipes the sweat from his hands on his trousers, gnawing at his bottom lip.  They planned this – skipping the traditional entrance where the bride makes her way down the center aisle with everyone looking on in awe – and Zayn wonder if it’s maybe a stupid idea Louis’ had.  Maybe they should be more traditional with their parents walking them down the aisle to a crowded room of friends, family, people they haven’t spoken to in years but who just so happen to show up when you’re getting married.  But Liam doesn’t want that – and Zayn’s starting to truly believe he’ll do anything that Liam wants, no questions asked – and he’s bopping from foot to foot until one of the ushers pushes open the door on the side of the room and Zayn’s moving on shaking legs across the threshold with his lip caught between his teeth and his eyes wide.

There’s eyes on him from all around, even more eyes on Liam from across the room.  They’re both moving slowly, the piano drifting into something like the Wedding March but Zayn can’t really hear it.  He can hear the cooing, the way cameras click off, the hollowed sound of his heart in his ears.  They’re crossing the front of the room, just in front of the first row of chairs, Tricia shaking with tears while Karen gasps and Zayn thinks even Liam’s dad is choking back a few tears while Yaser just studies them.

Everything gets a little fuzzy when he gets closer to Liam.  He can’t really see Louis’ smug grin or the way Niall’s cheeks burn bright red.  He thinks he can hear Doniya’s soft whimpers or the way Nicola keeps dabbing at her eyes with a napkin but, honestly, he only sees Liam.  He only hears his heart, feels the sweat coating his palms again, and watches Liam like this is impossibly real – _You say you spent your summer in the rain. Driving up the coast, I felt the same._

It’s so, so very real.

Liam’s smiling, brown eyes lit like fireflies chasing the stars in the dark.  There’s still a tinge of rough stubble over his chin and jaw, blonder than Zayn remembers.  His cheeks are frosted a faint pink – _Cover me in gray until I saw you. Just another day until I saw you_ – and his hair looks soft, cut a little shorter with the sides buzzed and it’s a gold-brown like it is during the height of the summer.  His shoulders look wide, his body stretching the material of his tuxedo but he looks fit.  He looks fucking _incredible_ with that sharp black color and Merlot-shaded tie and Zayn wants to kiss him.  He wants to skip all of this clichéd bullshit and kiss Liam until they can taste each other’s tears and words.

Zayn’s next breath hitches, a smirk curling over his lips when he’s close enough – _It doesn’t matter if the stars forget us. It doesn’t matter if the world doesn’t know our names_.  Something sparks inside of him, fast and aching, and it feels like years since he’s seen Liam.  It feels like years since his lips touched that birthmark etched against Liam’s neck, the faint color of a bruise from Zayn’s teeth and tongue still visible beneath the collar of Liam’s shirt.  He feels warm, alive, _scared_.

But everything feels safe when he’s close enough to pick out every color in those brown eyes and remember the taste of Liam’s lips against his tongue.

Liam’s hands find his first, shaking and sweaty, and Zayn bites down on his grin.  He lets Liam slot their fingers together, thick digits filling the space between like they never left.  He waits a beat too long – _It doesn’t matter if they talk about us_ – and he ignores the way his mum is trying to usher them to their spots or the way everyone’s sort of staring at them like they’re witnessing the beginning of something that’s been happening for years.  He presses the softness of his palm to Liam’s and leans in just enough to smell citrus, cologne, the scent of Liam’s sweat sticking to his skin like he’s as nervous as Zayn is.

The click, thunder of his heart sounds like the words he has waiting on his lips – “I love you.”

He can hear the drops of rain splattering outside, the way the guests are taking in deep breaths.  Liam’s thumb strokes over the bird tattooed on the back of his hand, eyes tangled in Zayn’s.  His blood pulses and he sees glittered gold in Liam’s eyes, everything going from tense to calm once Liam’s lips move to whisper, “You look amazing.”

Zayn nods because he’s confused and desperately wanting this to be over.  He just wants Liam in his arms, holding him too close to breathe anything but this feeling deep inside of himself – _It doesn’t matter because we are in, we are in love._

Safi’s bouncing from foot to foot when they finally turn, move forward.  Liam’s still holding his hand, little squeezes every other footstep forward reminding Zayn he’s not running away.  He won’t ever run away.  It strikes up another smile on Zayn’s lips, Safi looking up at them with large, round eyes that seem proud and anxious.  He brushes a thumb over Safi’s forehead, watching the way Louis’ fingers dig into Safi’s small shoulders like he needs an anchor before he falls apart.

Zayn catches the small tears lining Louis’ eyes and, fuck, he has to look away because the moment Louis fucking Tomlinson shows emotion is the day the world is bound to catch fire.

Liam’s fingers trace over his knuckles, Safi reaching up to grab Zayn’s other hand while loosely holding the box that holds the rings.  He links his fingers with Safi’s, listening to the soft sounds of his mum’s whimpering in the background, Karen’s a little further off.  Ruth is shaking, Nicola too far gone now with the tears to be consoled and Harry’s fucking beaming like he’s been waiting on this moment longer than he’s waited to fall in love.  Niall shimmies a little next to Louis and Louis’ staring straight ahead at something on the wall, blinking rarely but, each time, his lashes peel apart with a little more resistance like the tears are making them sticky and damp.

The large man – Tom?  No, Mr. Higgins – reads off a few nice things, words from their parents, a nice letter from Harry that sounds sickeningly poetic and very much Harry.  He hears Gemma choke out a laugh while Louis frowns, trying not to look at Harry like the words were meant as much for Louis as they were for Liam and Zayn.  He glances over his shoulder to watch Eleanor lean on Liam’s dad, grinning while fiddling with her own ring.  He doesn’t pretend not to see the way Niall looks at her – _Every color in the world is in your eyes. And every way you look, you shine a light_ – and he holds his breath when Louis steps away to sing one of Liam’s favorite songs, something by Oasis, that sounds perfect and honestly beautiful.

Liam’s fingers tap out little words against the side of his hand, over his knuckles – _Hollow is the night until I saw you. I came back to life when I saw you._ He can hear Niall teasing Louis under the sound of Mr. Higgins booming voice, smirks when Louis elbows Niall away and Safi’s giggling too.  Liam’s leaning a little closer, their shoulders brushing and there’s words spoken from all around but all Zayn hears is Liam’s soft breathing.

They don’t read off traditional vows because that feels so clichéd and, well, Zayn’s _not_ that.  Liam’s not very poetic with the things he says, fingers twined with Zayn’s as they face each other.  There’s horrible jokes that Zayn still laughs at, eyes crinkling like Liam’s, and even Harry’s snorting from over Liam’s shoulder at how awful it all sounds.  Liam sniffles for a moment, his voice choked, his breath caught in his lungs.  He blinks at Zayn, then Safi, smiling fondly like he’s overwhelmed.

“I told you,” Liam starts and Zayn can feel his shaking through his fingers.  He squeezes Liam’s hands a little tighter, comforting and anchoring Liam to him again.  “I told you when you’re ready, I’m here.  I’m _always_ here.  I promise you, whenever you’re ready, I’ll always be right here.”

Karen’s wrecked after that, Tricia sobbing into Yasser’s shoulder and Zayn can only manage half of a smile as he looks at Liam.  The rain tickles the acoustics and Zayn forgets how to breathe.  He leans in just enough that their noses brush, lips so close but that’s one rule he won’t break.  He feels Safi pulling at the tail of his coat and he’s swallowing all of Liam’s desperate breaths.

“Love you,” he whispers, eyes on Liam’s trembling bottom lip.

“Love you too.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Louis hisses lowly and Zayn can hear the tears in his voice.

Zayn smirks, drawing back but he stays close enough to feel Liam’s heat.

His words are gentler, promises he’s been thinking of ever since he laid with Liam on his ratty old couch, Safi on Liam’s chest while Zayn offered him a cartoonish Batman and his heart.  His heart suffocates half of his sentences, everything turning a little bleary when he looks at the way Harry’s burying his face in the back of Liam’s jacket with a grin and something wet shining against those too green eyes.  He licks at his lips repeatedly, reaching back to pull Safi forward until he’s between them.

“I never knew what I wanted,” Zayn confesses, his voice hushed like the rest of the world’s not supposed to know – _It doesn’t matter ‘cause we are in, we are in love_.  “Not until you came around.  I was scared, babe, honestly.  You came in and loved me, loved _us_ like we were always a part of you.  And you love Saf.  You’re everything to him.  And I’m ready.  Ready for you to be everything to me, to both of us.”

Liam reaches out to curl his fingers over the ones Zayn has on the back of Safi’s neck.  There’s a solid smile on his ruddy lips, a small nod as confirmation that he gets it.  Zayn sniffles, smiling, and he holds tight onto tears while his heart cracks louder than the thunder outside.  This feeling is heavy and the lights spin a solid ivory and gold in his eyes but Liam’s stroking his skin like he can stop all of this.

He can stop the way Zayn’s never been sure without him around.

Safi offers up the rings after some coaxing from Louis and Harry’s got a hand on Liam’s waist to keep him steady.  Niall’s clinging to Louis with a grin that fades off some of the color in his cheeks.  Waliyha’s smirking, Doniya crying freely with Ruth too many steps away to clutch onto.  Gemma’s grinning with Eleanor over her shoulder and, somewhere in the crowd, Andy’s recording the whole thing on his phone.  Cher’s there too, seated with Greg and Zayn can see, in the distance, Ant and Danny grinning at their boy.  The flowers flicker orchid and sky blue as Tricia shifts in her chair, trying to straighten herself but she’s still a mess of tears when Liam slides the ring on Zayn’s finger – a silvery color that looks like the tips of the sun over a stormy day.

Zayn’s stomach tightens when he finally nestles his ring on Liam’s finger, their fingers twining again just for the touch.  Liam’s bitten nails scratch over his knuckles and Zayn takes in a quick breath that doesn’t provide enough oxygen.  He watches the way their rings fit together – _Say the words if you dare to know them_ – before he traces his eyes over Liam’s grin, the way his eyes glow around the edges.

“You may now kiss your husband,” Mr. Higgins half whispers and Zayn giggles, Liam’s eyes going a little wide like they haven’t practiced this part a million times before.

Liam leans in first, Zayn not even meeting him halfway before their lips crash together.  It tastes like honey, peppermint, the soft brush of apple from those tarts Liam loves from a bakery around the corner from their house.  Liam’s lips move like fire on glass, warm and inviting.  Zayn’s unsteady, breathing in short, sharp breaths while Liam’s fingers dance over his cheek.  It’s tender and slow and Zayn falls so quickly.  He brushes his lips, licks at Liam’s bottom one, ignores the catcalls and little jokes from Niall and Harry because, fuck, he’s waited for _this_.

His entire life, _he’s waited for this_.

The rain drums a little louder when he draws back, Liam’s lips tickling over his chin, his jaw, the base of his throat.  There’s hollowed breathing and Zayn’s fingers tighten around Liam’s as Safi makes protesting noises in the background.  There’s a thunder of applause that sounds bright compared to the dark sound outside.  Liam’s lips move to his again like he’s whispering _stay, just stay_ and Zayn does.  He smiles against Liam’s mouth and doesn’t move an inch.

“Ladies and gentlemen.  Friends and family.  I give to you Mr. Zayn and Liam Malik!”

Zayn giggles, leaning in until his face is pressed to the crook of Liam’s neck, Liam’s hand soft on the small of his back.  Safi’s cheering manically, Harry patting Zayn’s shoulder.  Liam’s stubble grazes over his cheek and he closes his eyes for a moment.

“Liam Malik, eh?” Louis wonders, poking at Liam’s cheek teasingly.

Liam grins just above Zayn’s eyeline, nodding.  “Didn’t want Saf to have to change his last name.  Besides, it fits well.”

“Better than Zayn Payne,” Niall jokes and Zayn wishes he was close enough to kick.

“He’s always been a Malik,” Doniya declares, clinging to Waliyha, whose nodding and grinning like all of this is warming her heart.

“Liam Malik,” Harry repeats and Zayn does the same, a little softer.  There’s a dopey kind of smile crossing Liam’s lips and Zayn wants to lick it away, repeat Liam’s whole name – _Liam James Malik_ – until they’re both tired of hearing it.  He thinks he’ll do that later when he’s deep inside of Liam, the sheets wrinkled beneath them and Liam’s groans cascading over his throat.

“The Malik’s,” Louis gleams, rubbing at Safi’s shoulder while Zayn drags fingers through his son’s hair, messing up what was left of his mini-quiff.

“Daddy!  Baba!  C’mon.  This is the part where we walk and show off for our fans!”

Liam gasps out a laugh, nodding at Safi while Zayn gives Louis a sharp glare over his shoulder.  Louis shrugs innocently but Harry’s laughing full out, Niall too.

Louis is an awful influence.

**

The pictures go by in a flash of lights that he doesn’t really remember.  There are ones with just him, Louis, and Niall, a few of Liam with Harry and Nick.  His mum clings to his arm through some photos, Yasser standing stern and stiff through most of them until Doniya, Safaa, and Waliyha find their way into a bunch that are silly and they’re all laughing together.  Liam takes quite a few with Doniya, Safaa, and Waliyha, Zayn doing the same with Nicola and Ruth.  Karen presses a kiss to his cheek while Liam’s dad proudly holds his hand for a few bright flashes.  He gathers up Harry, Niall, Louis and Eleanor too for some pictures – Louis’ fucking idea to make a human pyramid goes horribly wrong but, fuck, it’s Louis’ idea – before he’s kneeling next to Safi, kissing his cheek and laughing into Safi’s ear.  Liam lifts Safi, holds him close with Safi’s small arms wrapped around Liam’s neck as the flash goes off.  Then it’s just he and Liam, little kisses pressed underneath Zayn’s jaw, along his cheek, lips meeting chapped ones.  Their fingers stay woven together, Zayn breathing in the last of Liam’s oxygen with their foreheads pressed together.  Liam’s hand on the small of Zayn’s back, Zayn’s cupping the nape of Liam’s neck, smiling at each other because they’re not posing.

They’re just that in love.

The banquet hall is cleared out for the staff to drag in large, circular tables that are lit up by small candles and a buffet is seated along a far wall.  The tablecloths are a wine color – “For ambiance and to match the wedding party, of course,” Louis had insisted, Tricia agreeing soundly – and there’s a gift table, a seating chart that Harry scrawled out, and a guestbook already scribbled in by half of the attendants with little notes of luck, blessings, and all around cheerfulness that Zayn will never get over.  Tall glasses of champagne are poured, small rock glasses filled with water, and everyone’s an echo of chatter that rocks off the walls like the thunder kissing the sky outside.

“You’re going to muck up my hair,” Waliyha protests as Doniya tries to fix the falling flowers.

“You’ve already fucked the pictures with your awful choice in attire,” Doniya warns her, her voice stern but still filled with sisterly love.  “Honestly, Waliyha, could you have maybe found a more flattering color?”

“She looks ace,” Nicola calls out and, Zayn can tell, she’s traded off more than a few shots with Harry and Gemma while waiting in the parlor.

“Thank you,” Waliyha chirps up but Doniya yanks on her coat and she’s merely hissing out obscenities that would make their mum blush if she was close enough to hear them.

“I need a dance,” Niall announces, snapping his fingers to the dreary music – a selection created by Louis, Harry, and Nick which means it’s one-half post-punk music, one-third techno-club stuff, and three-fifths manic alternative stuff but Liam managed to slip in a few songs he likes and Zayn will no doubt enjoy.

“I need a _drink_ ,” Louis sighs out, yanking Safi close who’s still wide-eyed at the spectacle that’s happening around him.

Harry offers up a half-empty glass of something clear with a thin black straw and a wilted lemon edge hanging off the rim.  Louis rolls his eyes, makes a protesting noise before grinning.

“You’ve got shit taste in alcohol, love,” Louis declares, slapping a hand over Safi’s mouth before he can scold Louis.

“This coming from the idiot who drinks wine or margaritas,” Harry laughs out, taking a few small sips of his drink before passing it to Nicola.

“Texas Margaritas,” Louis boasts a little too snobbishly.

“Never been,” Niall says with a small shrug.

“He hasn’t either,” Harry barks out, folding his arms over his chest a bit petulantly when Louis flips him off.

“Worst best men ever,” Ruth says with a small giggle, leaning on Eleanor who’s giggling behind her hand and making eyes with Niall.

“Oi, you lot need to keep it down.  The guests will hear you,” Safaa hisses, Doniya toying with her bouncy curls until Safaa smacks her hand away and tries to look sophisticated and mature despite the fact that she’s still fourteen and far from both.

“Brat,” Waliyha says mockingly, nicking Niall’s beer but Doniya snatching it away before the can meets her lips.

“Fucking tosser,” Doniya blurts out when Waliyha pinches her arm.  She takes a swig of the beer before handing it to Ruth and everything settles into laughter and teasing.

Zayn bites on his lower lip, Liam’s arms around his waist while his chin rests on Zayn’s shoulder, pulling Zayn back until his chest meets Zayn’s back.

“One big happy family, eh?” Liam teases softly, decorating Zayn’s neck in quiet kisses that ache down Zayn’s spine.

“We’re fucked with this lot.  The definition of dysfunction,” Zayn says with a mild laugh, resting a hand on top of the one Liam has pressed over his stomach, fingers sneaking between the buttons to rub at Zayn’s flesh.

“They’re banned from any Christmas events,” Liam says with a smirk, nuzzling his cheek to Zayn’s.

“Eid too,” Zayn declares, his teeth nipping softly along his lip.

“Niall would never survive Ramadan,” Liam jokes, his own teeth gliding softly over the sharp line of Zayn’s jaw before he leaves behind smiling kisses that soak into Zayn’s system.

“Probably not,” Zayn laughs, leaning into the touch of Liam’s soft lips.  “My bet is on Harry.”

“Nope.  He loves masturbation too much.  Louis loves to swear.”

“Eleanor?” Zayn offers, their fingers tangling just near the waistband of Zayn’s trousers.  Fuck, he needs Liam’s lips around his cock, his tongue pressed to Liam’s tight hole.

Liam giggles, nodding.  “She’s too posh to act like them.”

Zayn grins out an agreement, loving the way Liam’s scruff itches at his neck as Liam sucks a nice little mark just below his jaw.  He’ll remember to litter Liam’s chest, his thighs, the back of his neck with matching marks, all purple and bruised later.

He watches everyone line up when the wedding coordinator storms inside, hushing them though everyone’s still sort of giggling and half-drunk on whatever Harry and Gemma are passing around.  He’s holding Safi’s hand, offering up warm smiles that calm Safi because this is all a bit much, even for Zayn.  Niall and Eleanor make their way out first, followed by the Malik girls, then the Payne’s.  The camera flashes look like bursting stars across the room, sparks of light that blind almost everyone as they try to walk – well, _stumble_ in Nicola and Niall’s case – toward the long table set up for the wedding party at the front of the room near the DJ booth that Nick is manning like the captain of a sinking ship.

“Ready Saf?” Liam asks, his voice trying to reach over all of the applause and laughter as Harry weakly tries to carry Louis toward the table, still those fucking idiots in love they’ve always been.

Safi shrugs a little, offering up a brave smile when Liam flicks the tip of his nose.  “Yes, daddy.”

“You sure?” Zayn wonders, a little less certain.

Safi groans, tugging on the sleeve of Zayn’s shirt and Zayn’s relieved Harry had hung their jackets on the back of their seats already because it’s way too warm back here.

“Baba, we have to finish marrying!”

Zayn snorts, Liam laughing into the skin of Zayn’s neck and, finally, he feels ready himself.  With his fingers tangled with Liam’s, his other hand stroking Safi’s shoulder through his tiny jacket, he feels completely ready.

“Ladies and gentlemen, once again, we give to you… with their right adorable son Safi, Mr. Zayn and Liam Malik!”

Liam gives Zayn’s hand a little squeeze, Safi anxiously bopping on his toes in those too shiny shoes that look like Louis’ that are probably too big for his feet but Zayn has to admit, he looks adorable.  Liam pulls him in before he can take a shaky step forward, lips against Zayn’s and he tastes like chocolate.  He tastes sweet and happy and Zayn curls his fingers into the hair on top of Liam’s head to anchor himself before the waves wash him away.  He’s drowning in this, searching for a way to keep himself breathing, and Liam’s guiding him through the all too short kisses that feels like a dusting of forever on his lips.

Zayn keeps his forehead pressed to Liam’s, panting.  “Mr. Liam Malik.”

Liam giggles, their noses brushing.  “Not gonna get over it anytime soon, yeah?”

“No.”

“Good,” Liam says with a glittery smile.  “I don’t want you to.”

Zayn smirks back and the next kiss is much shorter, just a quick reminder that they can trace each other’s hearts with their lips later.  He lets Liam pull away to lift Safi, the muscles in his arm flexing and very much defined under that starched white dressing shirt.  He tries not to frown at the way the wedding coordinator is sighing and groaning, ushering them forward and all of the lights dance like the flames of a lighter in the dark.

**

Quite a few drinks later, Harry is clearing his throat and tapping the end of a microphone like this is one of those acoustic nights down at the music shop.  His first few buttons are undone, a nearly empty glass – whiskey, neat this time around – sloshing around the lasts of his drink and everyone can hear the clink of his necklaces as they bounce off each other under his shirt.  He’s got his silly fedora on – the gray one that’s beat up from years of servitude over those bouncy curls and the one that Louis hates vehemently – and those round green eyes are glassy but large.  His sleeves are rolled up, Niall finding a seat on a stool in the area just in front of the DJ booth that Nick’s grinning from behind like the world is his for the next couple of hours.

“Excuse me loves,” Harry says, his voice breathy and deep.  He rubs his thumb along the edge of his red bottom lip, still a bit swollen from the kisses Louis circled there between drinks at the bar and plates of spicy chicken with mash.  He grins when more than a few of the ladies straighten up, crossing their legs in their too tight dresses like they have a chance.  “Might you all simmer down for a moment?”

“Quit flirting,” Louis calls out from the long table that’s dressed up with empty plates, half-empty champagne glasses.

“Yeah,” Niall adds from behind Harry and the crowd fizzles into a round of laughter as blush prickles along Harry’s smooth cheeks.  “Get on with it.”

Harry rolls his eyes, finding his own stool to sit on.  The beaming spotlight bounces colorful streaks off the rings around Harry’s fingers – a hipster in wedding clothes – and there’s a constant buzz in his smile like he’s got something special to offer everyone in the room.

“My mate Niall and I have a little something special for the grooms,” Harry says, laughing at his own joke.  “Grooms,” he repeats before clearing his throat again, thrown off by the groan Louis howls out.  “It’d be our honor to sing you a little song as they have their first dance as a married couple.  As the Malik’s, if you will.”

Zayn ducks his head a little when another spotlight drops on them, Liam licking kisses against his ear and cheek.  Their fingers are twined beneath the table, Liam’s ankle brushing Zayn’s and they’ve been settled into this little world where everything else hasn’t existed since they sat down.  The rain still drums outside, sliding slickly down the ceiling-tall window to the side and the silver of the clouds is reminiscent of the rings nestled around their fingers.

It’s a slow burn of applause when Liam pulls his lips away long enough for the blush to settle against their cheeks and Liam’s guiding Zayn toward the small dance floor just off to the side.  Zayn’s tilting his head downward, a little ashamed at the way his shirt’s missing a few buttons and Liam looks completely wrinkled from their long snogging session off to the side while everyone fixed themselves plates of food but Liam’s thumb finds a soft spot under his chin to lift it.  He finds warm, love-spun brown eyes that ease him into something like a comfortable feeling.  Liam’s grinning, sweet and endearing like always, easing his hand down Zayn’s back.  He gives a little push, drawing Zayn in and Zayn can’t help the way his arms naturally go around Liam’s neck.

He’s smitten.  Fucking head over heels, arse over tit – it all sounds way too clichéd in his head like falling in love to a Justin Timberlake song – and he’s content when Liam’s hands find his hips and squeeze.

“Mr. Malik,” Liam whispers, leaning down and in.

Zayn grins, biting a corner of his lip.  “Mr. Malik,” he whispers back, the name heavy on his tongue like he can’t believe it.

Niall’s fingers strum against the guitar in his lap, a raised smile on his lips as Harry leans into the mic.  He clears his throat again, a little softer, the music swaying gently like the spirit of something that wakens the hearts of everyone.  He adjusts his hat as Liam grazes his nose against Zayn’s, their foreheads pressed together, and everything feels timeless and forever.

Liam’s biting down on a smile as they drift over the floor, their shoes slippery over the hardwood but Liam leads them and Zayn follows willingly.  Harry’s voice is raspy, thick like honey – _Saying ‘I love you’ is not the words I want to hear from you. It’s not that I want you. Not to say, but if you only knew._   It’s the kind of song Harry probably fell in love with when he was five years old, listening to it on an old radio in his mum’s kitchen and teaching Liam all the chords to it when they were high off Cokes and sugary treats when they were seventeen.

Zayn reaches up to run his thumb over Liam’s thick eyebrows, smiling hard.  Liam blinks at him, a little lost in an awe that Zayn doesn’t quite understand, but maybe he does.  Maybe he’s the same anytime he looks at Liam in the morning, the lazy sun glowing off his skin while he’s buried to his shoulder beneath the duvet.  Those too brown eyes that are true and willing anytime Zayn cuddles up to him after licking Liam’s come clean from his belly.  The hands that rub circles into Zayn’s back and he’s sort of speechless at the way Liam’s lips look after they kiss – swollen, bitten, loveable.

He lets Liam push a few kisses against his puckered lips, fingers combing through thick hair.  He longs for the way it’ll start to curl, getting longer come winter when Liam’s too lazy to shave it off.  His footing feels off, a bit clumsy but he follows Liam with a gentle smile and Liam’s fingers drumming against the small of his back – _How easy it would be to such me how you feel. More than words is all you have to do to make it real._ He shoves down concern and lets Liam swallow him up with his arms, grinning through longer kisses.

When he blinks his eyes open, he spots Louis guiding Eleanor onto the floor, their bodies fitting together like their love never ended.  They smile fondly at each other for a beat before their eyes turn to Harry and Niall, those looks softening into something insanely untouchable.  They dance circles near Zayn and Liam, laughing at the silly things they’re probably whispering to each other – _Then you wouldn’t have to say that you love me ‘cause I’d already know_ – and Zayn can’t help the way he grins at them.

“Love you,” Liam whispers up against his ear, fingers digging into Zayn’s side.

Zayn sighs happily, nodding.  He doesn’t have to whisper it back.  He merely eases a kiss to Liam’s cheek and the words seem pointless from there – _What would you do if my heart was torn in two? More than words to show you feel, that your love for me is real._

Zayn presses his head to Liam’s shoulder, ignoring the flashing cameras to steady his heart.  It thumps erratically but it doesn’t bother him.  It excites him, the way he always feels when this close to Liam.  Liam mumbles words into his hair, arms going tight around Zayn’s back and Zayn searches with his fingers over Liam’s chest, finding Liam’s heartbeat, smiling at its rapid pace.  It pulses just beneath the tips, through the thin shirt – _What would you say if I took those words away? Then you couldn’t make things new just by saying ‘I love you’_ – and Zayn grins against Liam’s collar.

“I’m ready,” Zayn says a little breathily, keeping his eyes lowered.

Liam kisses his temple, grinds a little against Zayn’s hips.  “For my dick?”

Zayn snorts, slapping playfully at Liam’s chest but he refuses to lift his head.

“For your _heart_ , you arse.”

“Oh,” Liam gasps, fingers sliding down to casually grip Zayn’s bum.  “Honestly?”

Zayn nods, folding his arms around Liam’s back.  He sighs quietly, Harry’s voice still booming – _More than words_ – and Niall’s harmonizing gently with every other pluck of the guitar strings.

“You’re beautiful.”

“Oi, stop being sweet,” Zayn coos, his mouth curling into a grin.  “Dumb fuck.”

“But you’re in love with me.”

“I am,” Zayn agrees softly, biting down on his smile again.  His fingers scratch down Liam’s back and he feels like he’s floating.  He’s careening off the edge of something wonderful into an abyss he never wants to escape.

“Idiots,” Louis teases as he and Eleanor sway past, Eleanor giggling into his neck.

“Wanker,” Zayn scoffs, sticking out his tongue and Louis does nothing other than shake his head and laugh.

“Baba,” Safi whines and Zayn glances down to his son sidled up next to them with a long frown and wide eyes.  “I wanna dance.”

Niall’s voice comes in, gritty and impressively strong – _Now that I’ve tried to talk to you and make you understand. All you have to do is close your eyes and just reach out your hands. And touch me, hold me close don’t ever let me go_ – and Zayn feels Liam’s smile against the curve of his cheek before Liam’s turning his head, easing a fiery kiss to his lips.

“Let’s not keep our son waiting, yeah?”

Zayn smirks, smitten and ready to strip off these silly clothes so he can trace thoughtful, poetic, literary words all across Liam’s naked skin.  He wants to decorate Liam in love bites, bruise his skin with his fingers, lick out their initials all across Liam’s chest while pulling back the foreskin on his cock to feel the wetness just at the tip.

He holds back those carnal thoughts, Liam creating a small bubble of distance between them before he’s leaning down, scooping up Safi until he’s secure.  He jerks Zayn back in by the loop of his trousers, bodies pressed together with Safi between them.  There’s coos across the room that bounce off the high ceiling and Zayn sort of tunes it all out to listen to Safi’s wicked laughter, Liam’s heavy breathing.

There’s flakes of stars in Safi’s eyes as they move across the floor, Karen and Geoff joining them, Nicola and Ruth too.  Andy escorts Doniya to the floor, Tricia managing to coax a smile out of her husband before they’re just on the other side of Zayn, Safi, and Liam.  Harry’s lips keep grazing over the mic, eyes for Louis only while Niall’s fingers strum out something peaceful that filters through the air.  Waliyha begrudgingly yanks Safaa out to the floor, trading off with Doniya when Safaa can’t keep up and Harry’s voice, sweet and somber – _More than words is all I ever needed you to show_ – blisters through the haze of it all while the rain goes almost silent outside.

Liam’s free hand rests in the center of Zayn’s back, Zayn reaching out to muse up Safi’s product-heavy ‘do.

“Baba, Doni just fixed it!”

Zayn shrugs, half-tipped smile on his lips as he leans forward.  He kisses at the end of Safi’s nose, swelling in the sound of Safi’s laughter as he tries, and fails to push Zayn back.

“You’re my son.”

“Mine too,” Liam whispers, biting playfully at Safi’s cheek and Zayn breathes in something sweet and bright when Safi’s small arms go around both of their necks, the three of them a tangle of smiles, kisses, and unity.

“Kiss daddy,” Safi demands, snickering when Liam makes a shocked gasping noise.  It’s put on, just like Liam’s frown when Zayn hesitates but it all drizzles downward over his heart like the thick drops outside when he angles his head and moves inward.

“Liam Malik,” Zayn says gently – _What would you do if my heart was torn in two?_ – and Liam’s bright-eyed, dangerously happy at the sound of Zayn’s voice.

“I’m yours.”

“ _Ours_ ,” Zayn corrects him, catching the tail of Liam’s smile before they’re kissing, long, slow, Zayn licking at the roof of Liam’s mouth.

“Gross baba!” Safi giggles out, ever dramatic and so Louis Tomlinson.

“Fuck no,” Louis crows and Zayn doesn’t pull back immediately but he’s tempted to just to see Louis’ expression when he flips him off.

“So sweet,” Tricia coos, Karen crying happily into Geoff’s chest and Liam’s nose scrunches up with a laugh.

Zayn takes notice of the way Yasser looks at them, his face nearly blank except for that condemning expression that holds his jaw tightly.  It fades off when Tricia smacks his chest, hissing something a little too low for Zayn to hear but the sting remains.  He aches with a frown that Liam kisses at, spinning them until Zayn is looking at Eleanor and Louis rather than his parents.  It does enough, a smile pushed up high on Eleanor’s face, to slow the pace of his heart and Liam’s in his ear before his thoughts turn wayward.

“Love you, babe.  No matter what everyone else thinks or says, I love you.  I’m yours.  Remember, ‘kay?”

Zayn nods slowly, swallowing.  Liam sounds so hopeful, his smile pressed to Zayn’s ear.  He closes his eyes, reverie replacing guilt and disappointment.  His fingers tighten on Liam’s back and Safi’s fussing with Zayn’s hair, tangling it up and this feels completely at home.

Liam and Safi are his home.

**

The toasts go on without any major incident – well, unless you count the endless amount of tears flooding Karen’s face or the way Tricia sobs and chokes and clings firmly to Yaser’s forearm like a vice – and Zayn can’t fizzle the smile on his lips through each of them.

Nicola’s teary-eyed, still buzzed on endless cups of champagne and Irish car bombs but she manages to work her way through a poem Liam wrote when he was nine years old about his dream girl – _“And Zayn, you seem to have each one of these qualities… even the part about loving Batman comics as much as poor Liam does.  Plus I don’t think you’d look bad in a pair of Wonder Woman knickers, right?”_ Niall’s toast is composed of inappropriate jokes, stories about Zayn and Liam hooking up on the couch in front of him and Eleanor – “Didn’t quite get to start up the honeymoon that day, did ya?” – and a few meaningful words that leave Niall stuttering, cheeks burned a crimson color before he’s raising his glass with a thoughtful “cheers to the Malik’s.”

Harry’s toast is slow, all over the place, filled with little anecdotes, taking a piss at Liam more than congratulating him and little flickering glances toward Louis that makes Zayn think this is more about _them_ than it is about Zayn and Liam.  He’s halfway to being three sheets to the proverbial something before he truly sinks into the important parts.  He tangles his fingers in his curls, bright green eyes looking like sharp edges of jade with that dimple flaring and those ruddy lips curling into a grin.

“He’s my best mate,” Harry says, his voice dragging but that’s more from the emotion rather than the alcohol this time.  “And I’m so happy he’s finally found _his_ best mate.  Without you, Zee, I don’t know where Liam would be.  But _with_ you?  And my nephew?  I think he’s finally found where he is.  He’s _home_.  Thank you and, from the bottom of my heart, cheers to your happiness.  Well-deserved.”

Liam’s fingers dig into Zayn’s thigh, tender for a moment before they’re gripping for a piece of air his lungs can’t contract.  There’s that off-bitten, too dopey grin on his lips but something a little sweeter is crinkling his eyes, brow lowering.  Zayn smirks, leaning in, soft press of lips to Liam’s incoming stubble.  He misses the touch a little too much when Liam stands to yank Harry into one of those hugs that’s all back-slapping, loud laughter before it turns warm, brotherly, loving.  Dusted lines of glittery tears wet their eyes and Zayn tilts his head to watch how quickly Liam’s smile turns brilliantly gentle and openly fond.

“I’ve known Zayn all of my life.  He’s always been a bit of a prat, a little desperate for attention.  The lad’s always had it out for me and he’s just,” Louis pauses, microphone pressed to his lips and Zayn watches the static-electric feeling wash over him.  Something cracks, his eyes a bit wide before he sighs.  “I’m happy for him.  I just… I am.”

It ends like that.  Blue eyes, the rolling tide beneath a summer sun, blink rapidly before the tears sting and Zayn bites down on his lower lip, Liam’s fingers tangled in his.  Louis turns a little, just enough for the crowd to not see the heel of his hand scrubbing at his eyes but Zayn does.  He sniffles, looks so small and lost beneath the almost proper lighting of the room and Zayn reaches the small distance between them to grab Louis’ hand.

It’s enough.

Louis smiles quietly, nodding, passing the microphone to Nick before swallowing Zayn in a hug.

“You’re amazing,” Louis chokes out, lips half-buried in the fabric of Zayn’s shirt.

Zayn presses a quick kiss to his temple, smirking, his hand smoothing down the center of Louis’ back.

“Fucking idiot.”

“Shut it,” Louis nearly sobs but he’s grinning against Zayn’s neck, reaching past him to pat at Liam’s broad shoulder.  “Fucking hell, I’m not some little shit who cries at weddings.  Especially not yours.  You’re not worth ten pounds and a good cup of breakfast tea.”

“This coming from the lad who loves Taylor Swift,” Zayn sighs out, lips grazing over Louis’ soft, out of place hair.  He can’t school the way the corners of his mouth lift just slightly.

“Don’t mock her genius.”

Zayn rolls his eyes because, honestly, were they doing this?

“I feel sorry for Safi being stuck with you two,” Louis jokes, his breathing finally evening out into something considerably normal.  His hug tightens around Zayn, fingers still idly petting Liam’s shoulder just to keep the connection alive and bright.

“I feel sorry for Haz.”

“You dumb fucks,” Niall says suddenly, swallowing both of them into his arms and it goes like that.  No words, just the sound of their laughter and the warmth of their pinpoint touches that keeps everything bearable for just a few more moments in time.

They cut the cake – some gorgeously put together work of art with Batman and Green Lantern figurines instead of grooms sitting at the top – to the spark of camera flashes and a few more calls of adoration, Safi right by their sides.  Blush rings at his cheeks like a river rushing over rocks, his hand a little unsteady as Liam guides it through the thick cake that’s all vanilla frosting and chocolate inside.  He chews softly on his lower lip while feeding Liam a piece, a warm tongue licking at the edges of his fingers as Liam grins around them.  His thumb drags on Liam’s bottom lip – electric fire that makes his heart race – and those brown eyes swell into an almost maple color that Zayn loses himself in.  Liam licks away frosting from his lips, from the spots on his cheek where Liam smudged it a little earlier and Zayn can almost hear the way his mum giggles beneath the white noise in his head.

Just the sweet, sweet press of lips that feel like the beams of a glowing moon and stars bursting into spinning tails of glitter.  It’s desperately clichéd and he’s okay with that.  Here, beneath the etch of a small spotlight, the eyes of the world on him, he’s okay with that.

He’s completely okay with it.

He smiles while leaning against a wall, head tipped back, watching the swaying mass of bodies colliding over the dance floor.  It’s a half-baked celebration that’s mainly a collection of laughter and the dancing is led by the fading taste of champagne on everyone’s tongue.  Nick slides through a few selections from Queen, a little more contemporary like Paramore and Katy Perry, Safaa singing loudly along to that one Carly Rae Jepsen song Louis convinces Nick to play – _Hey, I just met you and this is crazy_ – before it’s slow dances to Frank Sinatra and hints of Etta James, a little Bob Marley.

Niall’s singing to the room with his tie undone, suit jacket flapping as he shimmies, halfway through Harry Belafonte – _Jump in the line, rock your body in time. Okay, I believe you_ – when Harry sidles up to Zayn against the wall.  They grin at each other, nodding, arms going around each other with laughter.  Liam’s teaching Zayn’s mum how to samba, swift hips and little swivels that are far too uncoordinated to be adorable while Louis drags Eleanor around the room in a horribly put together imitation of a tango that has Harry doubling over with a wheezing laugh while Zayn makes a face.

Zayn’s eyes crinkle around the edges, Harry’s wide and impossibly dreamy before they’re giggling again at the way Niall’s shifting through the dance floor, dancing with a few of the older women before he’s spinning toward Karen and rocking his hips to the tick of the percussion – _Shake, shake, shake senora. Shake your bodyline._   He can still taste the burnt off remnants of rum and Liam’s kisses on his lips when he runs his tongue over them, nose scrunching with a snicker.

“ _Beetlejuice_ ,” Zayn and Harry laugh out together and they’re clutching onto each other while Liam leads a long Conga line through half of the room.

He nurses a half glass of aged wine and a sideways smirk on his lips while watching Niall twist Eleanor around the floor.  Louis’ hopping around Harry, blitzed off one too many shots of whatever Niall’s been drinking all night while Harry’s wide-eyed again and giggling, cheeks splattered in a nice pink hue.  Safi’s bopping around with Safaa and his younger cousins, snickering and waving his hands around.  He’s as uncoordinated as Zayn’s always been when dancing but it’s cute, hard to look away from.

Liam’s doing a neat shuffle, a quick spin, sliding down into a half-split that he’s mastered while dancing a little too clumsily to Daft Punk and Usher through the years – _Treasure, that is what you are. Honey, you’re my golden star._   Waliyha’s sliding across the floor while trapped in Doniya’s arms, laughing off the high of the night with their foreheads pressed together.  Ruth’s shaking her head furiously as Nicola tries to drag her to the middle of the floor, Liam scooping up Safi to spin him around in a dizzying swirl of giggles and day-bright smiles.

The rain ticks along the glass next to him, looking like splintered stars in the sky while he finishes his drink, smirking around the rim of the glass as Niall dips Eleanor and Louis mocks them.  The pane of the glass window is a bitter cold, cooling his already heightened senses until he can breathe without feeling this emotion swallowing him – _You know you can make my wish come true. If you let me treasure you._   He chews on his thumbnail, Safaa dancing happily with their mum, Karen managing to drag Geoff to the center of the room for something a little slower, romantic amongst the chaos.

“Come on now,” Liam calls, shuffling toward him, the edges of his mouth turned up high.  He’s waving his fingers a little, something like a _come hither_ that Zayn snorts at.  “You can’t stay here all night.”

“I can try,” Zayn offers up, everything starry-bright when Liam gets close enough.

“Can _not_.”

“I _can_ ,” Zayn laughs back and he barely notices the way Liam tangles their fingers together until blunt nails scratch over the back of his hand, their rings grinding.

“You’re stubborn,” Liam fusses, still grinning.  He leans in, noses brushing, lips touching briefly.

The tips of his fingers brush over Liam’s knuckles, his smirk running sideways over his face.  “You’re a pain in the arse.”

“But you married me,” Liam counters, those once honey-brown eyes looking dark and endless this close.

“I did.”

“So dance with me,” Liam insists, giving him a small tug that seems ineffective but Zayn gives way just because.

“I don’t – “

“Yes, we all know,” Liam says a little offhandedly, still smirking.  Zayn’s fingers tighten around Liam’s and he nods.

Liam releases one of his hands, the loss of warmth a sick feeling against the rim of Zayn’s stomach.  Fingers tangle into the soft fabric of Zayn’s waistcoat, tugging, the flex of Liam’s muscles beneath his thin dress shirt noticeable as he pulls.  Zayn watches the tattoos on Liam’s forearm – four thick arrows, a perfectly etched feather that draws up memories of its meaning against Zayn’s mind – shift against satiny gold skin and he’s in love with the way Liam’s cheeks are stained pink anytime Zayn looks at him for too long.

He’s not drunk but he’s catching the wave of something intoxicating whenever Liam looks at him through soft, gold lashes and his lips quirk just high enough for Zayn to see the crinkle around the corners of his eyes.

“I love you, you know that?” Zayn says, his voice hushed and low against Bruno’s – _I know that you don’t know it but you’re fine, so fine._

Liam responds with a small nod, dragging Zayn through the shifting crowd, closer and closer.

“You’re hopeless,” Zayn says against Liam’s ear when he’s drawn in far enough, their bodies pressed together tightly.

Liam’s hand shifts against the dimples in Zayn’s back, fingers splayed with Liam’s leg nestled between Zayn’s.  He’s smiling against Zayn’s neck, tickling the scruff there, whispering softly into Zayn’s ear – _You’re mine, oh mine_.

“You’re mad,” Liam finally says, giggling, lightheaded and incredibly happy.

Zayn’s smile catches on his cheek, grinding back against Liam’s purposeful movements and Zayn feels like they’ve done this a hundred times before.  Just the music and their bodies learning each little tick that drives the other wild.  He likes the press of Liam’s fingers against his spine, searching each little knob while Zayn’s fingers curve over the nape of Liam’s neck.  Just the brush of Liam’s lips on his cheek whenever Liam smiles really hard, Zayn mouthing words against Liam’s jaw.  His trousers feel tight, his half-hard cock resting against Liam’s thigh, and the lights above pinwheel into something magically bright when Liam kisses along his neck like it’s just them and no one else – _You are my treasure. You are my treasure_.

Liam’s neon bright and his body moves like the curl of a wave against Zayn’s.  His hands move like a promise over Zayn’s hips, one against the back of one of Zayn’s thighs, fingers scratching at Zayn’s throat.  He has a rhythm that Zayn can’t reproduce but he falls into, head on Liam’s shoulder, the sound of Louis’ gagging at them ruffled by the hum of Liam’s voice against his ear.  And Liam’s not wild or uninhibited but he’s the edge of the sun against Zayn, burning and so wonderfully bright.

“Nice,” Liam whispers with a low laugh when Zayn rolls his hips just to the left, catching the full length of Liam’s trapped cock.

Zayn mumbles out a _‘thank you,’_ biting on a grin when he lifts his head a little.  He’s shameless with his own smirk, eyes narrowed and Liam’s pressing their foreheads together to hum out a couple of bars – _If you let me treasure you_.  Zayn snorts, their lips brushing just slightly before Liam’s drawing back and laughing at the way Niall’s grinding against Karen and Harry’s spinning Gemma around and around.  It’s a bubbling sound that tickles Zayn’s skin and stains Liam’s cheeks a faded pink.

Something slow and melodic kicks in and Zayn can pick out all of the golden stars flickering in Liam’s eyes.  There’s something crisp about his smile – the undeniable definition of admiration – and Zayn sort of sways to the way Liam press a hand to his lower back, their fingers linking together one by one.  He catches Louis’ eyes – sparkling blue like the moon inking a glow over a long stretch of ocean – when Harry draws him in, Eleanor’s arms curled around Niall’s neck to their right.  The moon breaks through charcoal clouds and deep purple skies to flicker soft straying light through the windows and the rain still sticking to the glass looks like silver snowflakes.

There’s a clearing of a throat, deep and rough like he remembers as a child, before a stiff, “May I cut in?”

Zayn shivers a little, Liam pulling back with a soft, endearing smile.  He’s nodding and rubbing politely at Zayn’s waist until Zayn turns a little and meets deep brown eyes that are so familiar but not.

“I’ll just be over there,” Liam whispers, his voice sewn together in that sincerity that only Liam manages to carry, a puppy still willing to protect his master.

Zayn tries to swallow, wide eyes blinking until he can barely spot the little shapes that make out Liam’s figure.  There’s another hand on his hip, calloused fingers pressing in deep until Zayn turns completely and meets Yasser’s eyes.  His teeth slide over his bottom lip, feeling seven years old and three seconds from being scolded for breaking his mum’s favorite picture frame or for sneaking into the kitchen late at night for another slice of that sticky sweet dessert his mum prepared.

“Dance with me, beta,” Yasser insists, pulling Zayn a little closer.

He’s not rough, forceful and, beneath the layers of disapproval and sternness, there’s a gentleness that Zayn remembers.  It’s a fond memory – somewhere in the middle of a warm September with his baba pushing him on a swing in a park, all laughter and warm smiles with Yasser showing a soft side that’s been buried for too long.  His shaky fingers find Yasser’s shoulder, their hands clasping as Yasser glides them around the floor in slow, slow circles.

They’re quiet for too long – _Since you been gone, I feel my life slipping away_ – just the rock and ebb of their feet against the hardwood, Yasser looking at Zayn and Zayn’s eyes flitting over all of them.  Just a blur of images, nothing really standing out – Safi giggling with Tommy in a corner of the room, Louis switching off with Niall to dance with Eleanor while Harry and Niall parade mockingly around the floor like world class dancers.  Waliyha’s leaning her head on Doniya’s shoulder, Safaa in her lap, smiling at each other before Zayn looks away because, _no_ , this isn’t like when they were children.  The distance has been too thick, a torch long burned out by his parents’ disapproval of the choices he’s made.

His heart thumps dense and loud in his ears – _I look to the sky and everything’s turning gray_ – and Yasser’s fingers dig in a little further, a sharp touch that draws up Zayn’s attention.  He looks up through long lashes, his baba looking much older, worn, the wrinkles setting in against that completely gold complexion that still reminds Zayn of fading layers of the sun.

“Safi’s getting taller,” Yasser says, something warm and loving pricking his lips.

Zayn chews at his lip, nodding.  He clears his throat, searching for strength before he says, “He is.  Loads.  I don’t know what Liam’s been feeding him.”

He’s waiting on a wince, a little frown to tug at Yasser’s lips but his baba remains steadfast, his expression blank.  But fingers stroke his side, Zayn’s eyes closing to remember that comforting touch when he fell off his bike, the first time he ripped his skin in half skateboarding – _All I made is one mistake. How much more will I have to pay?_

Zayn blinks his eyes open, the turn and shift of their bodies breezing past a few of his parents’ friends, relatives he doesn’t see often enough.  Something thick sits at the back of his throat, his heart still drumming a little too fast.

“He loves seeing you guys,” Zayn adds, quieter with his chin tucked.  “He loves playing with Safaa and he’s massively in love with listening to music with Wali.  Doniya’s great with him and, well, you and mum make him feel… He just loves being with you.”

Yasser nods stiffly, his smile returning.  “We love him.”

It’s another dead silence for a beat, Zayn’s hand slowly sliding down Yasser’s arm to rub at the thick material of his jacket.  It’s old, still fits nicely, and Zayn’s seen it too many times at family dinners, posh restaurants Yasser drug them all to in their sharpest clothes for the holidays or just to share a Sunday dinner together.  His teeth nip at a corner of his mouth, Yasser still looking at him with – Well, Zayn doesn’t know _what_ it is but it unnerves him and he’s stumbling through another few steps.

Yasser laughs, deep and hearty.  “Still two left feet.”

Zayn snorts, lowering his eyes some.  “Yeah.”

Fingers grip his chin lightly, pulling it upward – _Why can’t you forget about the past?_   A thumb strokes at his stubble, those once hardened eyes so endearing and cautious.

“I’m proud of you, beta,” Yasser says, his voice a little unsteady.  He nods when Zayn’s mouth falls open, grinning like he’s accomplished something.  “You’ve done so much on your own.  You’ve become a _man_.  But, most of all, you’ve become the beautiful person I knew you always would.”

Zayn blinks at him, once, twice, six times until everything stops look hazy and wilted.  He feels cold, like the dusting of frost in the beginning of December, before his heart strokes out of time and he’s warm again.  He’s gnawing at his lower lip and it feels like everything has stopped, his breath latched in his chest.

“You what?”

Yasser laughs again, the sound swelling and, from the corner of his eye, Zayn spots his mum dancing slowly with Liam, grinning at them like she knows.  Like this moment is creasing against her heart and leaving her full.

Zayn feels the roughness, the aged skin of Yasser’s hand as it pats his cheek lovingly, affectionately.  There’s creases in his brow, his thick black hair pulled back and showing all of the crinkles in his skin when he smiles – _When love makes a sound, baby. A heart needs a second chance_.  His wide shoulders round, a strong arm pulling Zayn closer until Yasser can kiss his cheek, a sputtered laugh escaping his lips.

“I love Liam,” Yasser admits when he pulls back, still leading them over the hardwood.  His voice is proud, glowing and Zayn can’t fight the smile inching over his lips.  “He’s wonderful.  An honest man.  I see what he does for you, for my Safi.”

Zayn inhales a deep breath, lungs filling and suddenly he needs the cool blue smoke of a cigarette lining them.  His fingers itch as they move over Yasser’s arm, dull nails scraping the sleeve of his baba’s jacket.

“Abbu,” Zayn stutters out, tilting his head a little.  The words won’t slide against his tongue but he thinks Yasser already knows – _Since you’ve been gone, I’ve been in a trance. This heart needs a second chance._

“He’s brilliant, Zee, really,” Yasser adds, everything still a breath of sweet warmness.  His eyes brighten a little, gazing over Zayn’s shoulder and Zayn knows he’s looking at his wife, at Zayn’s _husband_.

Yasser is grinning at Zayn’s Liam.  His… _everything_.

That hand from earlier, the one that patted gently at his cheek, returns.  His thumb strokes over the sharpness of Zayn’s cheekbone, fingers biting just behind Zayn’s ear until everything is muffled and he can only hear the sounds of his own shallow breathing.

“I just want my son happy,” Yasser confesses, his tone a little lower but still kind.

Zayn’s eyes blink shut, teeth still scratching the edge of his bottom lip.  An unsure step, a small correction by Yasser, and Zayn’s moving in time again.  His heart finds a gentle rhythm, his body relaxing.  The room spins and he’s resting his head on Yasser’s shoulder for a moment.

“Thank you baba,” Zayn sighs out, his smile shaky but it’s there.

Yasser rubs at his back, small circles that remind Zayn of waking up from a nightmare, crawling into Yasser’s lap in his favorite chair in the living room, sitting through a long stretch of _Superman II_ before falling back asleep with Yasser rubbing small patterns against his curled spine.

There’s that tickling laugh in his ear again – warm and breathy and insanely deep – and Zayn finds his feet shuffling with Yasser’s.  A hand tightens on his hip and Zayn lifts his head, cheeks glittered in pink as Yasser shakes his head.

“Now don’t go missing dinner with us just because you’re married.  I expect to see Safi at least once a week just like your mum, okay?”

It’s not really a question or a request.  It’s a _plea_.  There’s a hint of unknown in Yasser’s deep eyes and Zayn nods slowly, lips quirking.  Maybe it’s an excuse, another way of him asking Zayn to be around more.  Maybe Liam too.  Maybe everything that was winter hard, stiff and unbending over all of these years has finally given way to the war inside their hearts.

Maybe his baba is telling him, _‘Please, Zee, I need you.  I need Safi.  Liam too.  But I want you back, completely._ ’

**

The rain is freckling the long road leading up to the banquet hall in pieces of glittered light.  The cars, the ones that are still here, are draped in a nice mist that shines a little brighter than the seasoned stars glowing just by the tips in the sky.  A nice fog sweeps just below the ankles, thicker as it reaches for the swirled clouds but it’s a pale color compared to the blue smoke slanting high and curling from his fag.  He dusts off the ash with a small flick, the cherry glowing a neon orange color in the dark but it’s almost gone.  The sweet taste of smoke in his lungs is depleting, just like all of the wedding guests.

He leans in the doorway of the main entrance, watching Harry try to balance Louis on a shoulder with his keys between his teeth and Louis’ hands roaming over random exposed pieces of his skin.  Niall’s laughing loudly, a barking sound that cracks through the air like the thunder from earlier.  He’s scrubbing bitten nails through fluffy blonde hair and Harry’s doing his best to flip Niall off while also shoving Louis into their car.

“You got ‘im mate?” Niall asks, a fleeting politeness crowded by a mocking snicker.

“Fuck off,” Louis hisses, words slurred and his eyes are heavy.

“Too much wine,” Eleanor giggles out and her hiccups sound like _‘too much whiskey’_ but Zayn bites on his lower lip rather than informing her maybe she’s a little more pissed than she’d like to admit.

The smoke soaks into the air and he sniffs at it until it fades.  He draws little circles over his bitten bottom lip with his thumb, eyeing Eleanor as she latches onto Niall for a little balance but he’s nearly buzzed off beer and Zayn’s more than a little thankful Ruth’s driving them home.

The dark sweeps Niall’s glowing form in shadows, a dusting of moonlight making his platinum hair silver, his blue eyes sparkle.  He’s grinning, one arm curled around Eleanor’s svelte hips and they’re giggling together as Louis drags Harry in the car by his curls, off-center kisses meeting Harry’s chin and cheeks rather than his mouth.  There’s eyes watching, mainly mates of Liam’s and Harry’s from a few towns over but Zayn doesn’t think Louis really gives a shit.  He’s bladdered and, fuck them all, he’s happily in love with Harry.  Eleanor’s a little wide-eyed and Niall’s lifting his chin with the kind of smile that’s fond rather than irritating.

“Swell parents those chaps will make, yeah?” Niall teases, Harry finally climbing back out the car but not before securing Louis’ seatbelt and pressing a sweet kiss to his forehead.

“Bloody brilliant,” Eleanor grins, winking at Harry who’s all ruddy cheeks and mused curls.

“You lot are fucking mental.  The whole bunch of you’s,” Harry says, his tone far from bitter.  There’s a lifting smile touching his lips, a small wave toward Zayn that he returns with a small nod, a tipped up grin.

Zayn stubs out his cigarette with the toe of his shoe, arms folding over his chest as Niall and Eleanor stumble toward Ruth’s car.  He tilts his head a little, still smiling.

“Amazing time, Malik.  Honestly,” Niall says with a bitten grin, his hand centered on the small of Eleanor’s back, her hair pinned up and skin glowing ivory beneath the hazy moon.

“Bloody ace!” Louis calls out, sloppy smile on his pink lips.  He’s trying to fist pump but, really, the roof of the car is too low and he looks a bit ridiculous.  “Fucking hell.  We need to do this again.”

“Like when you and Haz get married, Tommo?” Niall asks, something cheeky in his grin and Zayn catches the color in Louis’ cheeks, the way Harry’s eyes go large and his mouth falls open.

“Gross,” Eleanor snickers, still clinging to Niall for safety and support.

“You little shit.  You can fuck off and remember that El’s ass still says Property of Louis Tom – “

His words are just fogged up, cloudy noises against the window Harry’s already rolled up, shaking his head until those curls bounce out of place and the embarrassment dies down a little.  There’s little looks, Louis’ lips folding into a pout until Harry’s leaning in and the kisses they share are quite filthy, Zayn turning his head a little to look away.

Warm fingers slide over his stomach and the sound of the crickets beneath the still dripping bits of rain is a little louder than Eleanor and Niall’s giggles, Louis’ moaning behind closed doors and fogged up windows.  There’s a little flutter in his heart – warm, too warm; steely strong – when he looks down, a silver ring blinking off tiny beams of moonlight.  He smiles, honest, his teeth sliding over his bottom lip before lifting his head a little.

Liam’s grinning, his cheeks lifted, eyes crinkled at the edges, blonde scruff almost invisible against sun-kissed skin.  His birthmark flexes when he swallows, Safi nestled in Liam’s other arm with his small head resting against that wide shoulder.  Liam’s hair is a little flatter, still sticky with product but it looks soft, malleable.  Those brown eyes are soft, inviting, and Zayn wants to kiss him.  Fuck, he wants to relive every moment of the night through long, lazy kisses that will taste like chocolate cake and fizzy champagne.

Safi lifts his head a little, long lashes framing those lilac eyes and Zayn can see the bits of gold in them, almost a lavender-blue.  He rubs at them, yawning quietly before he’s asking, “Are we done getting married yet baba?  I wan’ my bed.”

Zayn grins, Liam’ fingers pressing deep into his hip.  Thick fingers squeeze gently, Liam’s smile turning warmer.

“Yes Saf,” Zayn says, his voice rough and sleepy.  He reaches up, scrubbing his fingers through Safi’s long forgotten quiff until Safi leans into the touch.  “The wedding is over.”

“But our lives are just beginning,” Liam adds.

Zayn smirks, shaking his head.  “Cheesy, my babe.  Massively cheesy.”

“Sod off,” Liam snorts, leaning up and their lips brush lightly, still too much but just enough for Zayn to know those kisses are going to taste better than that last fag or that gulp of wine he swallowed an hour ago.

“No more kisses daddy,” Saf whines, his brow knit with a tugging frown on his lips.

Liam laughs, the sound round and brilliant and Zayn doesn’t miss the way Liam leans in to kiss at Safi’s cheek, the edge of his nose.  Zayn feels something bubble at his lips, a quiet laugh, before he’s inching in too and they’re kissing again, lazy and perfect.  There’s no tongue but Liam bites softly at his lips and Zayn’s nose brushes roughly against his when the angle changes before Safi’s groaning and the kisses turn on him, stupid laughter and the air wet with a cold touch.  They drag messy pecks over Safi’s cheeks and this feels so right.

It feels _real_.

“Oh, bless,” Eleanor sighs, Niall struggling to get into Ruth’s car while still keeping his fingers tangled with Eleanor’s.

“Right job there, Liam.  Liam Malik.  Nice ring to it,” Ruth calls out, still a little tipsy from the glasses of champagne passed around earlier but she’s bright-eyed, smiling when Zayn peels back to glance at her.

Liam’s smile is goofy, dopey, incredibly Liam and Zayn smiles against Liam’s lips, foreheads touching.

“Liam Malik,” Liam whispers, a soft swirl of wind dancing over them as they huddle together in the doorway.  “I’m a Malik.”

“Always were, babe,” Zayn assures him softly and they don’t need to say anything else.

They linger in silence, the three of them, until Safi’s falling asleep against Liam’s shoulder and Zayn’s fitting his fingers with Liam’s, eyes on their rings.  He knows the inscription on his says _‘When you’re ready’_ and Liam’s is simply _‘I’m ready.’_

He sighs, mouth fitting against Liam’s once more and the rain starts to pick up again, a gentle reminder of where things started.

**

**One Year Later - Epilogue**

 

It’s this feeling – the way home is more than just a little passage in the complicated, overly-cynical story of his life – that continues to wrap itself around him until its tight, too tight.

From the window of the living area, he can see the way frost and snowflakes ice the world outside like falling stars and rivers of ivory.  The moon shaves off some of the darkness but the silhouettes of the trees dance along everything until the shadows look like angels in the snow.  The sky is painted, no, _smudged_ a gray-blue that looks imposing from outside but it appears soft and cold from where he sits on the couch with an afghan thrown over his feet and Liam’s body – warm, tender, strong muscles pronounced – pressed to his like it’s always been an extended piece of his own.

“And the prince left Sleeping Beauty for some chap in the next town over where the seven dwarves lived and – “

“Uncle Lou!” Safi groans loudly, slapping his forehead with his own tiny hand.  He nips at his bottom lip – _Liam_ – with wide, shining iris eyes that look like purple flames in the half-dim room.  “That’s not how it goes.”

“Not at all,” Tommy complains, nestled close to Safi on the floor with a bag of candy between Safi’s legs, their thighs pressed together like they hate being apart.

Well over a year later and Zayn knows that they actually do despise being anywhere but next to each other.

“What?  It’s how it goes where I’m from,” Louis says mockingly, a hand pressed to his chest like he’s offended.

“And where are you from?  _Mars_?” Tommy scoffs and Safi’s leaning into him with a giggle, offering Tommy bits of red licorice and they’re chasing the candy with cups of bubbly root beer Harry fixed them earlier.

Zayn smirks, burying his nose into the crook of Liam’s shoulder, their fingers tangled in Liam’s lap.

Louis rubs at the thick scruff lining his mouth and chin, narrowing his eyes at Safi and Tommy.

“How do you know that’s not how the story goes?”

“Because that’s not how daddy tells it!” Safi boasts and Tommy’s nodding along, a little indignant with his smirk.

“Yeah, well, Liam is shit at telling stories.  Did he ever tell you about how he and your baba fell in love one night at the club and a nice shag at – “

“ _Lou_ ,” Harry hisses, his voice still smoky and rough but it’s a little quieter from where he sits next to Louis on the settee.

“What?”

“Horrible best mate,” Liam chuckles, lips fanning over Zayn’s cheek, right along the stubble that’s dark and shadowy.

“Yeah, well, yours is not much better,” Zayn says with a smooth smirk, winking at Harry.

“Offended,” Harry says back, green eyes lowered but still pleasantly happy like this world turns on its axis just for him.

“I’m offended by your hair,” Louis huffs, lacing his fingers through soft curls until they’re tangled and Harry’s mouth shifts from a frown into something a bit more affectionate.

Harry shrugs, his chin tipping to settle his eyes on the small, fussing toddler in his arms.  Zayn bites down on his lip as he watches her shift, stretch before yawning out a quiet sound that Zayn’s never gotten used to.  She’s got large brown eyes, soft and dark hair that Louis always lets Harry fix with stupid bows and fringe that sweeps neatly over her forehead.  She’s got pale skin – like the soft flakes of snow – and cherry lips like Harry.  And maybe Zayn will never get used to how sweet and kind Harry gets, how sickeningly adorable Louis is when she’s resting in his arms or when they’re chasing her crawling form around the kitchen but he still finds it amazing.

Amelia Styles.  Or Tomlinson, depending on how selfish Louis is feeling that day.

“She’s sleepy,” Harry whispers, lips tracing small kisses against her forehead.

“Yes, well, maybe you shouldn’t have kept her up all last night with promises of Santa Claus and Rudolph, you twat,” Louis mumbles, reaching out to sweep his fingers gently over Amelia’s cheeks.

“You promised Frosty.”

“I also promised you a blowjob but I rather liked when you put your finger – “

“Lou,” Harry squeaks out, cheeks a sharp shade of red.

Louis fucking Tomlinson.  Even as a father, he’s still that bloody prick with the shit ideas and no filter.  Zayn thinks he loves him even more than he did before.

“Baba,” Safi calls, leaning back to look at Zayn upside down with doe eyes and a sliding smile.

Zayn arches an eyebrow, Liam’s fingers warm against his hip, the tip of his tongue licking out pretty musical notes over Zayn’s collarbone.  Fingers shift through Zayn’s hair, much shorter now and barely standing in a quiff, even with half a tube of product slicked through it.  Liam likes it shorter, the way it draws up attention to Zayn’s cheekbones – he doesn’t blush at the way Liam can write fucking sonnets about his eyes or his lips or his cheeks – and Zayn admittedly likes the way Liam can’t ever get a proper grip on it when Zayn’s sucking his cock, sliding deep to the root until his nose presses into that clipped brown hair around Liam’s prick.  Or maybe he likes the way Liam fingers at his scalp, short hair prickly against Liam’s palm as Zayn slides into wet heat, bare and incredibly hard, until Liam’s breathless but still panting out _more, harder, fuck me until I can’t take it, babe_.

“Can we start film night?” Safi wonders, Tommy’s chin hooked onto Safi’s shoulder and his eyes are large and blue and as curious as Safi’s.

“Oi, as long as we don’t start with _the Lion King_ ,” Louis demands, shifting closer to pepper kisses along Amelia’s soft cheeks while Harry slides a pacifier between her lips.

“Can we watch _the Little Mermaid_?”

“You’ll always be my Sebastian, love,” Louis hums and Zayn rolls his eyes, biting at a smile when Harry sings softly – _Under the sea_.

“I wan’ _Toy Story_ ,” Safi sings out and Tommy’s making a face, drawing back.

“You _always_ want _Toy Story_.  What about _Finding Nemo_?” Tommy sighs out, their hands shuffling to clasp together before they’re grinning and reaching for the candy together.

Zayn doesn’t balk at a smile when Liam whispers in his ear, “Just keep swimming,” turning just a little to press a small kiss to the end of Liam’s nose.  The fireplace flickers off little bits of orange light that streak the planes of Liam’s face – soft, round cheeks and quiet brown eyes that are dusted in a honey hue and that tangling smile that catches Zayn off-guard almost every time.

He thinks it’s funny, a year later, this marriage still feels so raw, new, shiny, and bright.  He wonders, never aloud, if Liam feels the same but he doesn’t have to ask.  Liam’s kisses taste the same, his fingers fit perfectly against Zayn’s hips in the dark, their bodies tangle through sweaty movements under the duvet, Liam’s name burned to the edge of his lips when Liam grinds deep in him with the headboard pounding out the symphony of their words against the wall.  In the glow of the morning, the sun knocking back the shadows of the night and the world a fuzzy halo, Liam still holds him until he stirs and needs a cup of coffee and a cigarette.

It’s still so real.  Incredibly real.

“I vote for _Toy Story_ ,” Liam says, free fingers connecting the spaces between Zayn’s ribs.

Zayn feels his cheeks flush pink, his smile curling the corners of his mouth and he doesn’t deny humming – _you’ve got a friend in me_ – beneath his breath while Liam laces kisses against his shoulder and they feel wet against the thin material of his t-shirt.

“Your vote doesn’t count,” Louis sneers and Liam flips him off when Safi and Tommy look away to argue over the complexities of Lightning McQueen over the simple realism of Scully from _Monsters, Inc_. – except its mostly gibberish and wrinkled noses when Safi steals the last red licorice bit from the plastic bag.

“You’re an utter dick,” Harry says a little too fondly, inching his lips over Louis’ temple.

“You love me.”

“Not enough to marry you,” Harry teases, green eyes glowing olive against the dancing light of the fire.

“That’s because we learned a very important lesson from our dear mates here,” Louis declares, folding his hand over the one Harry has cradling Amelia’s back.

“What’s that?”

“All the good gifts come from having a kid, not tying the knot,” Louis beams and Zayn snorts, shaking his head.

Louis’ a fucking mad genius and Zayn thinks the world will never really know.

“Screw the Disney fest, we should watch all the best Christmas films,” Louis protests when the television screen goes blue, the room coated in the colors of the ocean, a summer sky as Liam queues up something.

“Like that one with the Island of Misfit toys?” Harry proposes, his brow lifted as he adjusts Amelia in his arms, slanting her until her head is cradled between the crook of his arm and his ribcage.

“Does Spongebob have a Christmas film?  I think he does.  It wouldn’t be right if he didn’t,” Liam says to no one really but he’s glancing around with wide eyes, soft pink lips that Zayn wants to graze his teeth against.  He wants to write poetry on Liam’s collar, the side of his neck with his lips and fingers in the dark with nothing but joggers and thick socks on.

“The Grinch was a proper film,” Louis declares, narrowing his eyes at Safi and Tommy because they looked zoned out on a sugar high and completely lost by it all.  “A _classic_.”

“If you say so Uncle Lou,” Safi says with a small shrug.

Zayn pretends not to notice the way Louis glares at Tommy when he says, “Your Uncle Lou is mental.”

“Takes one to know one kid,” Louis huffs out and Harry’s pinching Louis’ side, hiding his smile in Louis’ neck as Louis folds his arms over his chest like a petulant child.

Daughter or not, Zayn is certain that nothing’s changed about Louis or Harry.  Still complete idiots in love.

There’s something whimsical about Safi’s smile later on when Liam fixes them cups of cocoa doused in marshmallows, a cup of something herbal and citrusy for himself, and something black and heady for Zayn, Safi’s small arm curling around Tommy’s even smaller shoulders as they lay on their stomachs on the floor.  There’s a small bowl of popcorn between the thin space separating them, one in Zayn’s lap and Harry’s grinning into Louis’ cheek when Liam finally decides to queue up _Aladdin_ with promises of a _Christmas Story_ after the children have fallen asleep – “It’s for the _kids_ , Lou, hush.” “It’s for bloody Liam and his lovesick husband, you know it Haz.”

The snow falls thick and heavy like tiny little clouds of white in the night, coating the window in frost.  The fire cracks like Pop Rocks on the tip of your tongue, loud and memorable, the room haloed in gorgeous oranges, sparks of a flame red, a carousel of blues from the telly and Zayn feels incredibly warm.  Liam’s arm slides around his shoulders, mouth pressing gently to the crook of his neck until it feels like butterflies doing a Cirque du Soleil act across his stomach.  Thick fingers trace out pretty patterns on his arm, sliding over the inked skin until Zayn thinks he can’t live without those calloused tips and dull nails scratching his flesh.

He watches Safi, the way his feet kick back and forth in the air, arm still tucked around Tommy’s shoulders.  He’s seven now, still all thin limbs and nearly russet brown hair but his lips are a dusty pink like Liam’s and his laugh is bits and pieces of each of them.

Louis’ got his feet propped in Harry’s lap, just below Amelia, and Harry’s rubbing at his toes while watching the screen fondly like he knows every word, every lyric to each song.  Zayn’s artwork is framed along one wall, that sketch of Safi finally complete, a nice painting that’s all scattered colors like gold, reds, bunt oranges, flecks of copper that each remind him of Liam.  His foot runs over Liam’s ankle, their bare calves touching and Zayn swallows a breath because this… _this is home_.

His head rests on Liam’s shoulder through ‘A Whole New World,’ a smile tucked behind white teeth.  Their fingers tangle again as Zayn feeds Liam popcorn, giggling together through each one of Iago’s outbursts.  His head shifts a little, Liam’s lips dragging roughly against his scruff.  Short black hair tickles Liam’s chin and their slotting their lips together for just a breath, the taste of hot tea and honey on Liam’s tongue.

“Happy?” Louis asks, his voice hushed and when Zayn turns his head a little, blue eyes meet hazel.

Liam’s fingers tighten around Zayn’s, smiling wide with eyes crinkling at something on the telly.  His skin is like soft gold in this light and Zayn thinks, fuck, he _really_ is.

Zayn nods slowly for Louis, catching the way Louis’ got his fingers wrapped around a few curls while Harry coos at Amelia.  He wonders if, after all of this time, Louis can’t help but say the same.

He watches Safi, nodding off halfway through the film.  He eyes Harry, tucked into a comfortable position on the settee with Louis feet digging into his side, their daughter nestled in his arms, his world on fire with a grin still painted across those cherry red lips.  He chews his bottom lip while glancing at Liam, the way he seems content in all of this because, years later, he still loves the smell of cigarettes on Zayn’s skin, the sound of Justin Timberlake when their fingers touch, the way Safi finds his own spot on their bed, the way there’s always pieces of skin touching just to keep them connected.

The way all of this started with a stupid, completely mental idea from Louis Tomlinson.

He waits a breath, lashes beating against his cheeks until Louis smiles at him fondly.  They know; they always have.  It’s heavy between them, this feeling, like something greater came from such small, little things.  It sits and bakes under the heat of Zayn’s heart until Liam’s running smooth kisses along his jaw, fingers sliding beneath the thin material of his shirt just to keep that connection breathing.

Zayn licks at his lips, smiling back before he whispers the only words resounding in his head: “Thank you Louis Tomlinson.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a lot of this to make me smile so if it isn't your cup of tea, I'll try harder on the next one. I just really need something feel good to write and this was it for me. I almost gave up on writing _period_ but this got me back to it, so I'm thankful for it.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who leaves me comments and kudos. I hope this wasn't a complete disappointment (or sickeningly sweet). I just love this 'verse, okay? It truly is my baby when it comes to Ziam fics. But thanks for taking the time out to read this :) -- Jesse xx


End file.
